Compulsion
by Phantom Ou
Summary: Sequel to Obsession. The new year seems to bring tragedies: not only does a raging epidemic sweep across the villages, but in the city of London, an insatiable killer targets the nobility. Just what are his motives? "My existence was forgotten. I don't possess that kind of decency you'd expect to find in all humans alike. No, in fact, the only thing I obey are my compulsions."
1. Prologue: Bullet Hole

**Compulsion - Chapter 1: _Prologue: Bullet Hole_**

**Sequel to _Obsession_. Thank you, inspiration. (_The Sin of Innocence _is temporarily put on hold, so that I concentrate on one project at a time.) The summer of 2013 is finally here, and as hinted beforehand, here is the sequel! I've been working on my own novel, but as complicated as it is, I need a break from it, in which I'm hoping this sequel will provide.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.**

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On the cold, rainy night of January the fifth, it has happened again.

The grisly death of another noble.

It is an inexplicable death, brought about by obscured motives of an unidentified killer. A gruesome and cruel bereavement of an—to a modest stretch—innocent life. No matter how many times he, Arthur Randall, has trained his eyes on the consequence, he cannot get accustomed to the horrendous sight of the corpse. Protuberant eyes indicate the unspeakable terror that has slyly danced before them. The pale integument wrapping the abandoned shell of a human (indeed, it is nothing but a hollow shell deprived of a soul) glisten in the eerie moonlight. The mouth, its jaws slack as if forcibly pried apart, is a gaping aperture. The body is sprawled ungracefully on the bloodstained ground—though, of course, this noble no longer has the capacity for feeling embarrassed at his less than proper position.

The noble bleeds from three—it is consistently _three_—unsettling holes imposed upon his skull (ah, yes, scrutinizing this macabre scene does well to puncture Randall's appetite; he, as per usual, must swallow carefully while resisting the urge to regurgitate so that his honor stays intact). Randall shies away from the pelting raindrops and shudders, but is not quite sure that the chills are due to the weather itself.

"Tell me again, precisely, what has occurred here," Randall tells the bumbling fool of a carriage driver—who, in which case, is sniffling and crying at such a frantic level it is a miracle if one manages to extract an intelligible articulation from him. Fred Aberline, his subordinate, is doing his best to mitigate the pitiful, shocked fellow, but seemingly to no avail.

"I-I was, a-as told, I was transporting Baron Crawford from his residence to Dowell's bank, wh-when"—his eyes go wide as fear cultivates within him and manifests as a throbbing bulge in his throat, impeding his speech—"wh . . . when!"

His incomprehensible spluttering is testing Randall's short fuse. "Would you quit your blunders!"

"—when I heard a loud crash from the carriage, which made me curve to a stop rather recklessly"—he motions toward the wildly parked carriage that is tottering near the pavement—"and that's when his body was hurled out and it landed on the ground where you see it now, s-sir!" the carriage driver hastily utters the rest of his exposition, jumping back a bit and throwing up his hands when Randall has impatiently censured him.

Out of sheer annoyance, Randall hisses, forming fists by his sides in a belligerent manner (the miserable carriage driver mistakenly thinks that Randall's accentuated anger is directed at him, and stumbles a few steps backwards). However, fortunately for that fool, it is not him that is feeding Randall's exasperation—though he is not far off from being the principal reason; it is, in actuality, this accursed case.

"How many counts of this case does this make, Aberline?" Randall asks.

"This would be the sixth consecutive murder of a noble, sir," Fred replies, skimming through the documents in his hands, somewhat nervously, evidently disconcerted with this anomalous chain of deaths. It is inauspicious, no doubt, an omen that something treacherous will be lurking at their doorsteps very soon.

His teeth bash together in irritation that is mostly stemmed from his inability to do anything, with their minimal and petty amount of information on the killer. "Dammit!"

"You sound rather frustrated, Randall," a cool, apathetic voice ignites from behind him, cutting through the grave silence hovering over them. "Perhaps you are in need of my assistance?"

It is not necessary for him to extend this to his vision in order to classify the owner of this disquieting voice; simply hearing his impassive intonations, slightly tinged with condescension, is enough. The footsteps click to place, in a calm and sophisticated fashion, behind him, and that is when Randall chooses to turn around—but he does so sluggishly to demonstrate that he is largely uninterested in the newcomers.

Randall is certain to douse his tone with venomous mockery, "Well, it's the Phantomhive dog listlessly wandering around with his butler once again. Bored, are you not?"

Without faltering, Ciel Phantomhive levels his hardened gaze with Randall's. However, he does not deny the claim of being spiritless, because that is essentially what has become of him over this tormenting period of work stagnation. Simply rotting in the all-too-familiar, mundane environment of his manor has impelled him to temporarily leave it behind to enter the bustling city of London, despite the unfavorable weather.

"Quite so," Ciel admits, after a while.

"And, let me address this for a moment, as to why you are here. _Suppose_ you are—"

"I do not answer to hypothetical situations, I'm afraid," Ciel shrewdly declares, a light, sardonic smirk wallowing to the surface. Sebastian, his demon butler, in the meanwhile is inspecting Crawford's corpse at a cautious distance, so that he will not provoke the Scotland Yard officers who are immoderately stringent about the detachment of those they deem irrelevant to the case at hand.

Randall scowls at his intervention and proceeds, "Well, let's just say you are bored to the degree that you find it requisite to poke your nose into something that is entirely not of your business. I suppose you have approached me so that you may gain some knowledge on the details of these events."

"Suppose I am. Suppose I am rather intrigued by the mystery of it all, and just sufficiently curious to ask for some details on this matter."

The Scotland Yard commissioner twists his lips in a sinister smirk, having waited for things to culminate to this point so that he may exercise his authority. "I absolutely decline."

"I thought as such," Ciel comments tiredly, motioning to his butler. On cue, Sebastian appropriates the constructive documents from Fred—lamentably for him, his protests are greeted with negligence—and delivers it to Ciel's outstretched hands. Ciel's single eye, that boasts of a pulchritudinous sapphire color, rovers over the pages, as his fingers expertly flip through them. "So it seems the victims are invariably nobles. They all have three holes drilled through their skulls. Weapon is most likely a gun. Those that happen to be around the victims at their time of deaths are oblivious to how exactly the victims met their demise. This plausibly insinuates that the killer is very astute and keen, always within a safe range of his target, only attacking when he is definite that no one else will bear witness—"

Randall confiscates the documents, his hands uncompromisingly snatching them from Ciel's possession. "I _pitied_ you, so I allowed you a brief interval to play detective. Yet, now, _I'm afraid_, you must cease your worthless game."

"But, I am _capable_ of—"

Those who are well-acquainted with Randall know that is a frank, blunt and candid man; moreover, since this is the despicable Earl of Phantomhive he is facing, he has no intention of restraining himself. "I'm aware of your itch to investigate, to free Her Majesty of her encumbering concerns. _However_, must I add, you must be heedful to your_ place_." His voice is wired with indubitable spite, and it narrows to a hiss filled with contempt toward his closing statement.

Ciel is slightly taken back by the audacity of this fool to belittle him in such a mortifying way, but finds it rather difficult to retaliate, especially with the current circumstances, albeit his aptitude for witticisms. But, Randall is not planning to stop his sinful indulgence in gibing him. The manner in which his grey mustache curves up along with his derisive smirk is repulsive, and Ciel subconsciously clenches his hands into fists.

"The Queen's Watchdog, what an impressive occupation to speak with pride of," Randall says, and none can miss his blatant sarcasm. "How regrettable that it has lost much of its gleam after last year's incident. You are not as great as the Queen has been misled into believing, but I am sure she realizes that now."

Seeing the sharpening scowl, as well as the artfully subtle ire he must hold for him, on the arrogant earl's countenance is a gratifying sight that Randall will forever relish.

Placing a stern hand atop his shoulder, Randall leans in to his ear, his malicious aura securely encompassing him. He deals the finishing blow to Ciel's already crumbling dignity: "Please do well to remember that you are _suspended_ from being her Watchdog. Need I remind you?"

The Earl of Phantomhive is humiliated, so much that even the lofty, sublime title of being an infamous earl is unbearable to accept and craftily wield with satisfaction. Too many are depreciating his merit; in fact, they are insensitively marring the name of Phantomhive with their torrents of denouncements. These are incurred from the previous year's faulty events: coupled with the broad obliteration of Scotland Yard small fries (if he must include, his unlawful breakage from prison) is the complex, indistinct murder of Republican noblesse, where accusations of him being the killer have yet to fully fade and lose their potent and stressful implications.

"Now," Randall offhandedly brushes him away, and returns his attention to the corpse, "would you excuse yourself somewhere else where you will not get in the way of our investigation?"

In that mere moment, the rest of the officers follow suit and present to the earl their backs, as they go on to completely ignore his insignificant presence.

"Young Master," his butler whispers to him, "perhaps we should get out of the rain. You might catch a cold."

Ciel does not pacify his piercing glare—the fervor behind it is birthed from months of insufferable derogation—that oscillates between Randall and the corpse much in semblance to the perpetual swing of a pendulum. He barely responds as his butler gently guides him to their respective carriage.

"That dimwitted hound will never be able to solve this crime," Ciel seethes angrily as he clambers into the leather seat; he does not spare a single glance to the puddle he is creating with his considerably damp clothing. "I do not understand why Her Majesty would not just petition me to carry out this case; I can do as such with virtual ease. This suspension has been quite the burden, and it must be for Her Majesty as well."

"A suspension is a suspension," his butler replies smoothly. "If she were to lift it to ask for your aid, how others hold her in estimation will waver."

"I am aware of that!" Ciel snaps in an indignant manner, thrusting his fingers through his navy-blue hair and intertwining his fringes into knots. "But, it grates on my nerves at the thought of this unfathomable chain of murders that, without question, must be affecting the polite society. Her Majesty will not rest until this case is _put_ to rest. If only she gives me permission . . . I will gain access to more information. But, I cannot move around at my freewill with this parole she has lay upon me."

Surreptitiously, with utmost clandestine, the both of them shift their gazes to a poorly disguised man who, in a failed attempt to be covert, is cowering at an intersection while gripping steadily to his umbrella to shield him from the relentless downpour of the rain.

"This is somewhat of a dilemma, and it does little to quell the disturbance I feel. Take me to my townhouse," Ciel mutters, discontentedly resigning against his seat. His eye travels languidly to the roof of the carriage, as Sebastian maneuvers to the front to steer it.

_Indeed, these murders have initiated on the fifth of November last year. Then, it continued on the dates of November 28th, December 1st, December 3rd, December 12th. Things appeared settled from then on, but now, on the fifth of January, the murders have restarted. And it will not terminate until the killer is appeased with something. He seems to attack on random dates. The murders are premeditated to a certain degree, in the sense that he is exceptionally targeting those part of the aristocracy. Otherwise the victims themselves do not have a characteristic connection to one another._

Suddenly wearied, Ciel lets a groan slips from his lips as he covers his eye with his palm, inviting darkness to enclose his mind. He wonders why he is exerting such superfluous energy on a case that he is not authorized to participate in; it must be an undoing habit of his, a predilection to unraveling whatever mystery that dangles like a string, tantalizingly, before him.

Maybe this may result to be a rather modest case, where its alleged intricacies may actually be misconceived into existence. Perhaps it can be a case that even Randall is qualified to solve—simply the notion of that amuses the cynical earl.

Gradually, he releases the tension within him by mentally forming self-assurances that the enigmatic case will reach a elucidating conclusion soon. He permits himself to be allured by the rhythmic clobbering of the wheels of the carriage, slowly sinking into the fantastical realm of reveries.

But, just then, he feels something cut swiftly through the air, and whistle past his ears.

The carriage skids to an impetuous halt, jolting him to a wake. Ciel crashes to the side of it at the violent motion, and pain kindles at his arm.

His eye snaps open. There is a brief, fleeting second where all is still. Instinctively, and without preparation for what is to come, he glances at the small hole that has appeared on the window. The moonlight peeks through it hauntingly.

He hears as Sebastian jumps down from the carriage to capture the perpetrator. Ciel tells himself that he is not fazed in the slightest, as Sebastian should be able to detain the hostile factor infallibly. His gaze does not desert the bullet hole even when Sebastian returns.

"We were under attack, Young Master," Sebastian announces.

"Who did it?" Ciel quietly inquires.

"He . . . has managed to escape."

Astonished, Ciel, at last, rips his gaze from the hole to settle it on Sebastian. His butler is as composed and serene as ever, though there is a tenuous, faint layer of confusion glazing over his crimson eyes.

At the moment, no more words are spoken between them. Ciel's gaze once again drifts; he looks at the gloomy dark clouds environing the city and the rain that is increasingly turbulent.

This assassination attempt, it is not child's play, if the perpetrator has evaded successfully _Sebastian_. They are both cognizant of that fact.

"Your orders, Young Master?" Sebastian finally breaks the heavy silence, inclining to him in a graceful, impeccable bow.

Ciel narrows his eyes at the distressing bullet hole; beyond its dominant circle, it leaves minor cracks on the glass window, permanently destroying its surface as well as the peace dwelling in his mind. Peril looms nearer—insurmountable and immune to even the earnest of prayers—and sits above them teasingly, just experimentally granting them the bitter, acrid taste of threat. Moldable shadows quiver with excitement in the crevices of his mind. The bullet hole serves as a minatory hallmark of the danger that is always devalued but soon to arrive.

"Take me to my townhouse. I will have to investigate further."

"Even if Her Majesty is against this?" Sebastian cunningly adds.

Ciel folds his hands neatly at his lap. "It's quite simple, Sebastian: Her Majesty does not have to know."


	2. Seize the Chance

**Compulsion - Chapter 2: _Seize the Chance_**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.**

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"Yes," Ciel grumbles irksomely, his tone more or less a languid drawl at this point, "for the final time, and bear in mind, _final time_, for I am done with reiterating this: the killer is targeting nobles, such as you and I."

"But, are you certain?"

"Very much so." The Earl of Phantomhive then coughs into his fist, his forehead crinkling in a disdainful manner, when an intoxicating cloud of smoke is blown directly to his face.

"Ah . . . how unfortunate."

His eyebrows, tenuously, cross at the center, as he takes into account his companion's sheer—and rather commendable—nonchalance. But then again, he is familiar with his bewildering lack of ability to assess situations seriously.

Another cloud of smoke is breathed toward his direction, and an aggravated Ciel bats at it in order to disperse its concentration of narcotic chemicals. "Shouldn't you be more worried? I've invited you to my townhouse for the purpose of enlightening you on this severe matter." He, subsequently, leans back against his chair to elude yet another smothering collection of mind-altering vapor.

"Mm, perhaps I should be," the Chinese man murmurs, while relaxing on the chair proportionate to Ciel's, seemingly suspended in a dreamlike state. His opium pipe, detestably pumping out more smoke to taint the air, perches near his lips, supported by his thin, slender fingers. He is dressed in a silky, floral-patterned jacket and pants of equitable quality, and his eyes are persistently closed; he emanates carelessness, and yet there exists a wispy substratum of enigma embracing the man. "However, I have my cute little Ran-Mao with me." With a tranquil smile fixed on his visage, he gingerly cups the chin of the woman, that resembles a Chinese doll, mounting on his lap. She wears relatively suggestive clothes, judging by how much skin she reveals—and she also does not mind this, as she has used her physical appeal numerous of times before to beguile others.

"Surely, you don't expect that she can protect you at all costs. . . ." Ciel begins slowly, delicately, allowing for his words of wise counsel to be absorbed at a reasonable pace so that the Chinese man will adopt a conduct of temperateness instead of misconstruing his fundamentally good intentions.

It is quite propitious that he does not appear offended, as his everlasting smile is retained. His tongue clicks disapprovingly, in a roguish, playful fashion. "My, my, it would seem that the Earl is underestimating Ran-Mao." He, gently, taps his finger on his personal assassin's chin for her response, and she fulfills the implicit request by puffing out her cheeks as though to visibly portray her displeasure.

"_Lau_," Ciel, vexed, mutters through gritted teeth. He pauses brusquely to examine the Funtom Company files his butler has just set on his desk. "You're too indifferent. This affects you too; you should know better. Imprudent behavior can lead to your downfall."

Lau lifts his shoulders in a casual shrug, his exceedingly roomy sleeves slipping off his hands. "Oya, oya, no need to be so _dramatic_, Earl. Talking 'bout my ultimate death and all . . . that's a little depressing, you know? Besides, you have yet to tell me how you gauged this killer's potential so far. Is he any good like Jack the Ripper—oh, my apologies, touchy subject—or is he just a poseur?"

"I was attacked myself," Ciel declares, without breaking their eye contact, in a flat, unequivocal and straightforward manner. The daunting coldness in his voice is an aspect incapable of being disregarded. Merely this significant narrative gives an indicative insight on Ciel's appraisal of the killer.

Raising his eyebrows, Lau indulges in a long drag from his pipe. For a transient interlude, silence befalls them, as the Chinese man immerses in contemplation. The taciturn Ran-Mao squirms on his lap, almost indignantly, as if to express her dissatisfaction for Lau's uncharacteristic reticence. For a man that is prone to mirthful outbursts, it is a wonder that he has yet to do so now.

But, at last, the hindering pipe is removed from the press of his lips. Lau exhales a smoke ring this time.

"Meh . . . then this killer must not be that good."

Surprised, Ciel stops midway in his monotonous operation of verifying and stamping the files. "Why do you think as such? After all, he has boldly attacked me and managed to escape—"

With that inscrutable, crooked smile, Lau intervenes, holding up a finger and tilting his head to the side, "However . . . you are still here."

"Meaning what?" the Earl of Phantomhive interrogates, impatience imposing a slight strain on his tone.

"Meaning, he must not have been very good if he wasn't able to kill you. His assassination attempt failed. That's all there is to it. Now, if you were three meters below the earth, dead, because of his bullet . . . I'd be running for cover. But since you are still alive and well, there's nothing to fear. It's as simple as that."

Admittedly, Ciel can discern the sound logic behind this, despite the strong and unnerving connotations that he must be among the deceased for his concerns to be taken with soberness of attitude.

"Seems like you are not at all pleased with my answer, Earl," Lau comments, breezily stretching, and disturbing Ran-Mao's equilibrium in the process; she is compelled to shift about to accommodate to the changes in position.

Lau is at times more perceptive than he goads others into believing; his superficial ignorance is as deceiving as it is galling. Though, Ciel is not inane; he is well aware that often times than not Lau is genuinely oblivious to his surroundings. Thorough explanations are required to be carried everywhere, for the sole sake of precaution, whenever he accompanies him.

His stare lingers at the red stamp that he has affixed to the file before him. More to himself, Ciel whispers, "There is just a perplexing factor to this entire equation: how in the world was he able to evade _Sebastian_?" It is a badgering, interminable question that has haunted and prodded him since the assassination attempt.

"Aren't the City Yards in the midst of investigation? If you remain in this safe townhouse until the killer is arrested, your life is basically guaranteed. You shouldn't have to lose sleep over this matter."

"Yes, but I am not worried about my life. I am mainly concerned with discovering the abilities of this killer. Even if I'm on suspension, my duty to protect the Royal Family holds true to this day. I want this killer dealt with as soon as possible."

Lau pulls on his pipe, greedily filling his lungs with the self-detrimental opium. "Mm, a Watchdog will forever be a Watchdog. As always, it's your persistence that intrigues me. It's a pity that your suspension . . ."

"_That_, I know," Ciel does not bother hiding his chagrin. "I truly feel leashed. If I had the connections, perhaps I can move about from this rigid cage. Perhaps, then, I can get to the bottom of this." He pushes back against his chair, and knocks his fist meaningfully on the glass window behind him. As directed, Lau's attention floats to an awkward man that is pathetically concealed at the monumental gates of the townhouse.

Not missing Ciel's ingenious instillment of an idea, the Chinese man grins. "I wonder if the reason why you relayed to me all the information you've gathered 'bout the killer was really for my sake. Oya, oya, I'm starting to have second thoughts! Maybe you're just slyly seeking my assistance to sneak you 'round a few places that you can't attend now that you're on parole."

The Earl of Phantomhive's nefarious smirk makes itself present, if only very vaguely. "That is, if you're interested in helping me."

"Haven't I told him already, Ran-Mao?" He pinches her cheek affectionately. "I will do the Earl any favor. It is of my benefit in the end, anyway. But, Earl, do you even have the slightest clue on how to capture this killer? 'Cause if you were relying on me to conjure up a strategy . . ."

Ciel presses the stamp against the heading of a file. "I never leave the thinking to you. And, you should know better. It's the head of Phantomhive you are speaking to." Ciel looks at him, unhesitatingly, staunch eminence radiating from his small frame; a wily smirk smoothly glides into his features, and not yielding a second to blink, he proudly asserts, "I am always prepared with a plan."

Curious, Lau hearkens intently as Ciel says, "Now, we must base this capture at a large accumulation of nobles. Somewhere that attracts a lot of nobles, I am almost positive the killer will appear there as well. That is when we take action. Do you have any suggestions of such a place? Preferably, the event that brings together a mass of nobles should be scheduled at a nearby date, so that we can detain the killer as quickly as—"

"I got it!" Lau, suddenly, cries out, snapping his fingers, and startling both Ciel and Ran-Mao (though she is expeditiously returns to her typical facial expression of nothingness). "I know of a social event that will take place at the end of this month."

_Social event?_

Ciel is already experiencing abhorrence at the mere notion of striking up gratuitous conversations with others, and he is predisposed to decline whatever Lau is about to propose.

"—I'm sure you heard of it already. It's the winter ball, hosted by Marquis Wright."

Discomfited, the Earl of Phantomhive distracts himself by sorting the files in order, separating the validated ones from the ones he must query about to his butler. "In honesty, I have not heard of the winter ball."

Ran-Mao gasps faintly, and Lau drops his opium pipe in shock.

"Earl, have you been living under a rock?" Lau exclaims, unduly astonished.

"No, I live under the roof you're under at the moment," Ciel replies, maintaining a calm, level tone.

"Who _hasn't_ ever heard of the winter ball before? Seriously, it has got to be one of the biggest events before the coming of the Season! Oh my, what should we do with you?" Theatrically, Lau splays his fingers against his forehead and shakes his head as if effete and disappointed.

"I could care less about those things," Ciel says, not even glancing up from his files. "Social events are ridiculously bombastic, and so are the people that attend them. I refuse to go to the winter ball. There must be other options, other places where the killer will appear; if we are able to pinpoint them, we can take him down with ease."

Bemused, Lau cocks an eyebrow. "But, Earl . . . why can't we just go for something more convenient: the winter ball. Everyone who's important is gonna be there, you know. I know you're usually a wallflower at balls . . . and that the last one you went to, you know, Viscount Chambers' ball, where you had to dress up as a—sorry, again, bad memories—well, anyway, that did not leave a good impression. Even so, wouldn't this be the best way to get the job done faster?"

"I'm not going. We'll—_I'll_ think of something else," the Earl of Phantomhive curtly and concisely states, his patience threatened with having to reassert things that are unworthy of his time and energy.

The Chinese man produces some sort of defeated "meh" sound, and once again silence tugs its dense curtains between them. Ciel preoccupies himself with meticulously evaluating the circumstances his Funtom Company is thrust in; it seems like his profits have been curtailed, as his products have considerably failed in extending their appeal to the countryside for an unknown reason. Ciel frowns; usually, his products will do fairly well there but just recently they are not sold as fluidly. He will have to systematically study this bothersome plight with Sebastian later. For now, it will have to be put aside, and—

"But, you know, Earl," Lau pipes up, abruptly.

"Hm?" comes his torpid, lackadaisical reply; he does not possess much vigor to have a discourse with him. Ciel's sharp eye rovers over the next file, and after ascertaining its correctness, he stamps it and moves on.

"What other event, besides the winter ball, do you think will come up that involves plenty of nobles? If we don't do anything soon, the killer will just proceed on murdering whatever noble he wants, one by one, if he wishes to."

"I'll think of something," Ciel murmurs in a lazy and indolent manner; he is unconvincing, that much is evident. Nevertheless, he has no desire to impress Lau with some kind of overwhelmingly brilliant plan that does not include the winter ball. He will have to deliberate quietly in a solitary room at another time, in order to fabricate that sort of magnificence and utilize it in an effective stratagem. If he is to be sincere and forthright with himself, perhaps he is a bit, just _a bit_, childish and irrational to deny going to the winter ball. If one is to give his perspective on the matter impartially, then logically, the winter ball would be the most efficient option to lure out the killer. A widespread gathering of the aristocracy is too much of a glorious opportunity for that ruthless murderer to let pass.

Notwithstanding, Ciel absolutely _despises_ social events, with a passion. There is a number of reasons on why that is so: the suffocating mixture of perfumes; the incessant chattering in the background all merged into a discombobulating buzz; the dreadful _dancing_, that has a frighteningly debilitating effect; the unendurable pretentiousness of it all, especially of the turgid, high-flown those whose chief concern is their display of importance and splendor; and so on and so forth. It is a headache he would like to avoid at all costs, and the winter ball does not sound quite appetizing.

It is an annoyance, but he will settle for personally inducing the killer to come out if no other option works.

"Earl, I really think you're gonna rack your brain for no good reason at all. The winter ball's the ideal setting for you to deal out your plan."

_And he admired _me_ for my persistence._

"I told you already, I am not going." Ciel is exerting a bit of unneeded pressure against the stamp, but he is growing irritated.

"It's gonna be packed full with nobles!" Lau insists just as firmly, while stroking Ran-Mao's hair.

"Not going."

"There's gonna be a lot of nobles you know, too."

"If you would spare a second to inspect my expression, you will see clearly that I do not care."

"But, Earl, many people are going to go! It's a _must_!"

Ciel grips his stamp wrathfully. "I told you already, I am _not_ going to go to that stupid ball—"

"There is a rumor . . ."

Lau's cryptic smile wears down Ciel's exasperation, replacing it with inquisitiveness.

"A rumor . . . ?" the Earl of Phantomhive urges, and without completely realizing it, he is holding in his breath.

"A rumor that Alois Trancy will also be attending the winter ball."

Lau knows he is victorious when Ciel actually drops the stamp in his grasp. "Oh my, suddenly clumsy, are you?"

His throat has gone parched. "Don't . . . don't spout nonsense! No one has seen a shadow of Trancy since last year." Although he tries to be stern, there is a mellow softness to his tone that did not go by undetected by the Chinese man.

Lau is about to remark that Ciel must be lonely, but decides against it after perceiving as Ciel hastily picks up his stamp. Watching as the poor earl restart his tediously unvarying work—and halfheartedly at that—is a deplorable sight; moreover, he executes the task with a bit more vehemence than earlier, as if to pound out his rigorously locked up frustration onto the defenseless piece of paper.

Lau, then, retrieves his bronze opium pipe from the floor, wipes it tactlessly against his jacket, and sinfully satiates his lungs in its entrancing drug once more. Ran-Mao cuddles up against his chest. "Oi, Earl . . . seize the chance."

Ciel continues stamping, heedlessly.

"I know you hear me, Earl, it's mean to ignore someone, you know? Just listen to my advice"—he puffs out an intricate smoke ring, which momentarily sets a haze over his vision and he is inveigled to daydream—". . . seize the chance."

"What are you talking about?" the boy grumbles.

"Meh, you have 'till the end of the month, at any rate. Then you can choose whether or not to go."

The force of the stamp colliding with the paper is excessive, this time.

His thin, slender fingers twiddle with the pipe. "By the way, it was just a rumor, that's all. There's no telling if he will—"

"Would you just be quiet?"

"Yes, yes, Earl. I'd like to daydream for a while anyway."

And there is silence once more.

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**A/N: I've realized my chapters have gotten shorter. I hope you don't mind; at the very least, the plot is moving forward.**


	3. Disadvantages of a Wallflower

**Compulsion - Chapter 3: _Disadvantages of a Wallflower_**

**I'm crossing my fingers that I will pass the three-chapter curse! (I have been developing the extremely bad tendency of putting a story on hold after publishing three chapters.)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.**

* * *

Ciel tugs uncomfortably at his much-too-embellished suit, previously bedizened by his tailor Nina Hopkins. Firmly gripping his complementary cane, he straightens his top hat that has drooped by the force of the aggressive yanking of his sleeves.

"Ready, Young Master?" his butler, also well-groomed, courteously asks, his gloved hand hovering over the doorknob.

"I haven't been at a party since last year's ill-fated arrangement with the Republican noblesse," Ciel spits out, the nervousness in his tone is palpable.

"Correction, sir, it is not the _previous_ year. To be accurate, that incident occurred _two_ years ago."

He blinks, ruminating over what Sebastian has just clarified, and acrimoniously concurs, "Oh . . . that's right. We've recently transitioned to the new year. It still feels like the last, however. This _bloody_ January is truly infringing upon my time perception."

"Language, sir."

"It was an inadvertent adjective," Ciel grumpily returns; his petulance, needless to say, is derived from his distress with having to go to this odious ball. He will forever regard this day with antipathy, as well as his capitulation to Lau; that man's annoying "seize the chance" rubbish is surprisingly efficacious, as it has permanently established itself in his mental realm and recurred persistently in every hour leading up to the winter ball. Its relentless prodding was intolerable. Much more, Ciel had carefully weighed his options only to conjure up with nothing, with the unyielding strength of Lau's voice obtruding on his thoughts and automatically canceling out any other choice _but_ the winter ball. It was fervid to the degree that, one day, a fretful Ciel had thrown down his papers in acquiescence and emphatically announced: "Fine, I will go! Just bite your tongue!" (Of course, that earned him a long stare from his butler who then attempted to decipher the peculiar statement.)

His butler smirks, in a manner not too kind or compassionate (he is positive Sebastian does not possess the capacity for that anyway), "I will ask again, Young Master. Are you ready?"

His response is a reluctant nod; his large gulp pulls at his throat.

Sebastian, evidently enjoying his master's disinclination, pushes open the double doors that serve as the entrance to the lofty, colossal manor of Marquis Wright. In moments, they leave behind the enveloping night sky and enter the majestic building. Guided by a meek and humble servant, they trot down the brightly lit hallways, and passing through an imposing arch, they arrive at the ballroom.

It is as vast as Marquis Wright has boasted about to his peers, who of course are parallel to him in vainglory. Walls span from the ground floor to as high as twenty meters or so. Luminous chandeliers of silver constituent are poised at the aloft ceiling, disseminating to those enclosed in the ballroom radiant light; the candles are topped by flickering streaks of flame. Immaculate tiles spread across the floor. Occupying the ballroom is a heterogeneous group of nobles: some are distinguished by worth and merit, and some are grandiloquent and possess rapacious ambition to climb up the social ladder. Physically speaking, the men are garbed in neatly tailored suits, while the women don ostentatious dresses to compete with the latest fashion trends.

It strikes him, pitilessly, when he has first come in: the stifling scent of perfume. It permeates the entire room, saturating it with the distasteful fragrance of flowers. Vertigo forcibly grabs his head, almost immediately, and the edges of his eyes are rendered blurry.

It is irrefutable: he will not be having a good time here.

"Earl, Earl, wait up!"

Arresting the intense urge to groan with a swallow, he, with one hand perched upon his hip and the other clenching his cane, grimly tells Sebastian, "Do not turn around."

"Yes, sir."

As expected, Lau and Ran-Mao dash in from behind, and the former casually places a hand on Ciel's shoulder while doubling over to regulate his breath. "Why didn't you wait for me, Earl? I dunno why you _insisted_ on getting separate carriages."

"You talk far too much," Ciel replies plainly, shaking off his hand. It is a truth known by many observations, after all. The garrulous Lau will chatter on and on about trivial matters in a rambling, desultory manner. His prating self and his roundabout tendencies, that is, his stories show a clear disposition to pointless and endless talk, are a troubling nuisance. "I already have a headache convincing that idiotic Prince Soma and Agni to stay at home. I don't have the patience to endure any more nonsense."

The Chinese man sighs, his forearms snugly ensconcing themselves in his extravagant sleeves. "As harsh as ever, Earl. At any rate . . ." He peers around the area. "What do you suppose we do?"

"I do not believe the killer will reveal himself any time soon, as the ball is not at its prime yet. Since this place is excessively immense, we might as well split up. You take the right side, and I will take the left." Scratching his cane against the floor in a vertical fashion, Ciel draws an imaginary line, situating it in the midst of the room. "Understood? Report to me if you detect anything suspicious. Otherwise, act natural and blend in."

"Yes, yes, Earl," Lau says, grinning, already jubilantly steering Ran-Mao to the food table located at the foremost right side of the room. "We will be accommodating ourselves till then."

Ciel waits until Lau disengages from them and then condemns his unwariness with a frown. Sebastian, as well, frames the conjecture: "It seems like we will have to, wholly, rely on ourselves."

He nods. "Of course. Sebastian, you observe the premises of Marquis Wright's manor, and prepare to intercept the killer. If the killer's already in here, I will identify him and call you accordingly."

Sebastian sets a hand over his heart and bows respectfully. "Your command, I will accomplish."

The Earl of Phantomhive's eyebrows elevate past customary level, in a relatively disdainful and mordant fashion, "New catchphrase, I presume?"

His butler chuckles, on his way out, not at all fazed by his sharply caustic wit. "Why, I thought you have noticed by now; I prefer to alternate. It forges an affectation of freshness."

"I see," is his apathetic response to the butler, as he exits.

Indeed, it will be the inevitable death of them if they depend on Lau for his brazenly prominent unavailability of assistance. Well, Ciel has never precisely charged Lau with the responsibility on helping out, other than to get him into the winter ball—even Lau must have realized this. He has schemed, from the beginning, for he and Sebastian, exclusively, to apprehend this culpable murderer that is growing in notoriety.

However, until this depraved person's activities are extinguished, Ciel has planned surreptitiously, beyond his butler's knowledge, to assume the position of a "wallflower." Scooting clumsily to the left, having been lightly admonished by an illustrious couple for obstructing the entrance, he collects his composure while pressing his back against the wall. Scanning the staggering crowd, he fondly strokes the magnificently blue Phantomhive ring on his thumb.

This is a suitable spot, he concludes, as its scope is quite extensive; his vision is allowed to be stretch from one wall to another, and he can perceive a considerable amount of people. He decides to remain where he is for the rest of this _horrendous_—yes, although he has only been partaking in this "social" event for a few minutes at best, he finds it direly terrible—winter ball.

It is to his convenience that the Midfords have opted out on attending. He does not know how he will survive Elizabeth's unremitting and enthusiastic endeavors to persuade him to join in a dance with her; Edward's resentful, envious glares and his invidious remarks calculated to discourage his "dignity" as Elizabeth's fiancé; Frances' inescapable and austere criticisms of him; and Alexis Leon's fatuous doting and merciless bear hugs that never fail to impede his respiration. Normally, he can withstand their great vehemence, but that is so in the safety and comfort of his own home; now, he is vulnerably exposed in the abhorrent winter ball that has degraded him to a gracelessly solitary, morose individual (not that he was very friendly and inviting before, but this makes that fact much more obvious), thus he will not be able to fare well with the Midfords. Fortunately for Ciel, Alexis Leon was, as he has gathered from rumors picked up on the streets, embarrassed that he did not get to organize and host the winter ball this year; what is more, Wright (Alexis Leon's arch-rival, ironically) was granted the so-called celebrated obligation to do as such. Therefore, Alexis Leon adamantly refused to make his appearance and interdicted the rest of his family as well (an infantile reason, as Frances has promulgated).

Strangely, Ciel must smirk at the silliness of it all; the Midfords, invariably, bring some frivolity to his life that he does not detest—as long as the affairs are middling and they strictly keep within proper limits. Alexis Leon and Wright's opposition is an infamy in this fermenting city which is renowned for its flurry and fuss; although both are middle-aged men, they are highly competitive and they childishly strive to outdo one another for transitory supremacy, resorting to harmless denouncements of each other on random occasions.

Notwithstanding, Ciel can give sentiment for, once, he had an acute rivalry with a certain blond. They vied for the often times arduous tasks allotted by the Queen in order to acquire paramount favor, and their companies contended vigorously to garner the most profits. They had an instinctive contrariety of character, always at odds, a natural and basic repugnance for each other. While he had subjected himself to a blind pursuit to eclipse the other in execution and performance, he eventually forgot that the other is a human much like himself, equipped with broken dreams and shattered hopes and an unspeakable past. Because of his own distorted, presumptuous vision of the other, that is he saw him as an abominable monster and nothing more, he did not seek to speak on terms with him, much less become friends with him. Yet, when he had least anticipated it, he received invaluable help from the very "monster" he had despised. It enlightened him on the different, and more pleasant, sides of that "monster" until he subconsciously touched upon the question that many others imputed the generative answer as the impossible: "Should I be friends with this person?" But, just before he could institute a reconciliation and suggest that possibility—not explicitly, of course, he has too much pride for that—that person, on the spur of the moment, decided to depart to a place unbeknownst to the majority of people for an indefinite time period. He left the year prior and had not come back since then.

_Speaking of _him_ . . . _

His right palm stacks over his left which rests upon the cane. Ciel lifts his gaze from the ground to search the bewildering assemblage of nobles for the blond; their ever-changing positions—they dance and flutter about—and their perennial jabber make it an improbable and, most likely, fruitless ordeal to define him. Indeed, it is, in essence, unsubstantiated hearsay, and his efforts could just have been employed uselessly. Nevertheless, he has to wonder if he will ever reunite with his former rival.

A head bobs, intrusively, into his view, dragging his attention from the crowd to the individual walking toward him. The man, seemingly in his late forties to early fifties, is patently successful in facial hair; he has a black bushy beard and thick sideburns. An errant tuft of hair atop his scalp curves upwards. His small eyes portray the tender shade of chestnut. He wears a navy blue formal suit and a pair of glistening dress shoes; his expensive accessories consist of an array of fancy rings he puts on each of his finger. His intention to conciliate is undeniable; a broad, liberal smile fills the man's lips as he approaches Ciel, while carrying two glasses of wine.

_Marquis Wright_, Ciel instantly recognizes, and feels the plunging sensation of apprehension chew at his core. Shearing their eye contact, he internally pines that the man will redirect himself elsewhere so that he can proceed with the investigation at ease. He hopes that the brusque hewing of their interaction is indicative that he does not wish to socialize with the man.

Unfortunately, the man is unmindful of his silent objection, and stops right in front of him. Marquis Wright, in an attempt to mollify the tension, dilates his benign smile—whether it is an authentic one or not is another story altogether. "Earl Phantomhive! It's such a pleasure to see you here! I would shake your hand, but I'm afraid my hands are full. . . . Here."

Marquis Wright hands him a glass, and although Ciel's stomach is largely unprepared for the tacitly prompted ingestion of the alcoholic beverage, he takes it anyway to be civil.

"Now, tell me," Marquis Wright begins, imbibing the entirety of his drink in a single gulp and blatantly belching afterward, "what do you think of the winter ball so far, eh?"

"It is . . . satisfactory," Ciel manages a weak lie; although he desires to evilly impose upon the man the powerful might of his wrath for erecting such an absurd party, he must refrain from doing so to maintain advantageous relations. Instead, he secretly prays that Marquis Wright, the gaudy man, will deem his response too platitudinous, judge him as one with an insipid personality, form a feeble excuse, and move on; that would aid in making the evening more bearable if he is not required to endure impractical babble.

"Satisfactory, eh?" His smile twists in an askew, wry manner, signifying an inaugurating satire. "I'm sure the wall must be quite comfy." When Ciel narrows his eyes at him, he barks out a throaty laugh, "I mean no offense, now. Perhaps you are just lonely because your fiancée is not here."

"To be honest—"

"_Speaking_ of which," Marquis Wright's clamorous voice completely devours Ciel's, "such a pity that the Midford family could not attend. They claim they are busy, but I'm thinking ol' Alexis just didn't want to be rendered _sightless_ by my sheer fortitude of light."

Albeit the remarkable accuracy of his surmise, a newly launched, surging emotion of ire and exasperation grasp Ciel in its steel claws. That fool, certainly, has the shameless audacity to poke fun at him, as well as to go prancing about propagating his achievements.

"You should enjoy yourself more," Marquis Wright advises with another equally as disconcerting round of laughter. He waves at the crowd. "Mingle with them. I do not like the look of forlorn people, for it leaves a rather bad impression on my winter ball."

Ciel says through rigidly gritted teeth, "Thank you for your concern. It is unneeded, however. I am content with my current standing, and I will be content with it until this ball's _imminent_ termination." He stresses the word "imminent" purposely, to remind the moron that the event that has been unhealthily aggrandizing his ego will, too, come to an end.

Marquis Wright sways his head to and fro, sighing, as though he is dealing with a refractory child that does not heed to discipline, "Very well. It is of your own discretion. You are as lonely as that Earl of Durant over there." He points to an isolated individual with shaggy vermilion hair, who is lingering gloomily at a corner; his countenance is smeared with melancholy—the depressed eyes, sunken cheeks, pursed lips. The glass cup in his hand quivers. He has to speculate if the Earl of Durant mirrors how he is right now; if that is so, it, admittedly, is a disturbing sight.

"There are many nobles you can discuss your company with, and perhaps get a dance or two from!"

His irritation distends at the disheartening notion that Wright is _still_ here.

"Such as Viscount Chambers—"

"That is unnecessary!" Ciel snaps, a bit more churlishly than he had intended; nevertheless, that sickeningly saccharine man continues to send for chills to crawl down his spine. In fact, if he is to listen closely, Ciel can hear the Viscount's flamboyant cries in the distance; stirred, he is excitedly comparing some attractive lady to a robin yet again, a frantic avalanche of praises spilling from his perverse mouth.

"Oh, _oh_! My little cock robin, how sweetly you tread upon this floor—"

The Earl of Phantomhive quickly stops listening to the overly expressive imbecile, shuddering.

"—Baron of Easton? Duke of Giles? Viscount of Hightower?"

Marquis Wright's profuse influx of recommendations is doing well to aggravate him. "No—"

"Oh, Marquis Wright!"

A lean, slender man of his late thirties, donning a thrilled mask upon his face, comes ambling over in a hurry to greet him. His fiery red locks bounce as he moves nimbly with exhilaration. Ciel is relieved by the opportune distraction, as his temper was dangerously simmering.

Wright's eyes brighten in acknowledgement. "Ah, Sir Hughes!"

They embrace briefly, before Sir Hughes takes notice of Ciel and addresses Wright, "Oh, was I disrupting your conversation?"

_Yes, but you've done the right thing_, Ciel, sourly, thinks to himself.

"Nay, this one here's not quite the talker." Wright explodes in a raucous, strident chortle, rubbing his swelling belly in a smug and complacent fashion. Now that he has his companion, he parades on as if Ciel's presence is void: "He must have been disgraced by his company's poor performance as of late."

Sir Hughes expels a chuckle, even though there is nothing amusing, and Ciel designates him with the fitful title of a sycophant. "Oh, Earl of Phantomhive, you have our sympathy."

Ciel scowls at the both of them. "What do you mean?"

Wright again snickers maliciously, as if what Ciel has just uttered is the most comical thing in the world. "It is _your_ fault for insisting on extending your sales to the countryside." He, with pesky indifference, removes a cigar from his breast pocket; Sir Hughes, submissively, lights it for him, and Wright draws in the smoke and subsequently puffs it out. "I've been there not too long ago, and let me be the first to warn you, business is _awful_ there. Am I right, Sir Hughes? He has accompanied me, after all."

Sir Hughes nods in agreement. "It is a waste to try to sell anything there. Not only are they impoverished, they are afflicted with this terrifying disease."

It piques his interest, then. "Disease?"

"Haven't reached your ear yet?" Wright asks, exhaling smoke. "Polite society appears to have not heard of it yet. I don't blame them, I wouldn't have spared a shilling for this, but I have come across it incidentally; I was just passing through to get to my factory. No one really wants to bother us nobles with this insignificant information so we do not discuss this in detail, but I witnessed it."

"Witnessed . . . ?" Ciel impels him to carry on.

Wright's expression, suddenly, grows grave and somber; his teeth clench on the cigar with ardor. "They're a terrible bunch, those accursed farmer folk! Hmph! It serves them right to be _diseased_! They are very rude, mind you. So discourteous. An uncouth, unrefined group. It is mortifying that they take a part in our great country."

"Well, someone must feed us," Ciel censures his ignorance.

Wright skips over his reproof, "_Something_ hit them severely, and now they're ill with this unknown disease. In case it is contagious I advise you to not take a trip down there."

Sir Hughes speaks up next, "It was truly a horrific sight. Their skins, deteriorated to their bone infrastructure—gruesome splotches have overwhelmed their measly flesh; their eyes, hollow and thinned, and overcast with sickness; their lips, shriveled and dried; their cheeks, withered; their body frames, contracted with starvation due to the uncontrollable disease actively eating them from the inside out."

"That grisly disease has been birthed by one of those dirty folks down there!" Wright proclaims ferociously. "Luckily for us, the disease is being contained in the countryside. Numerous villages have been quarantined to prevent the spread of this atrocity."

Ciel contemplates over this information; because he has been stripped of his title as the Queen's Watchdog, he no longer has the prerogative of gaining intelligence firsthand. Apparently, this mysterious disease has caused for the influential drop in sales percentage.

"But, it is not as easy as it should be," Wright adds on, "from what I heard, the villagers"—he peeks around the room at an expeditious rate, and the volume of his voice declines radically—"are trying to get to _here_. Those that _claim_ they're not infected want to push into London where the hospitals are and such."

"And what's happening to them?" Ciel inquires, out of genuine curiosity. He would not have foretold that having a thriving conversation with the man he has written off as hopelessly preposterous not too long ago is conceivable, but Wright's narrative is engrossing enough that he does not desist from encouraging him.

Sir Hughes jumps in, raising a hand for attention, not at all hindered from Wright's piercing glare boring into him from the side, "Why, all along the borders of London the police are intercepting them. If they know of no—no _affluent_, I should say—relatives or close friends in London, then they are turned back without delay. That is the Queen's countermeasure to overpopulation in the city of London. A sudden deluge of villagers will not only leave the farm fields untended but upset the crucial balance between city and country life. We simply do not have the resources to provide for them all right away; we are still in the preliminary stages of researching this disease."

"But what if those that are truly uninfected are turned back to the infected villages?"

Wright opens his mouth, but Sir Hughes, quite the brisk man especially when it involves gossiping, cuts in yet again, "Then, it is their problem what happens to them. Hopefully, they are just immune. If not, they will probably suffer from the menace of the disease sooner or later." There is a pause to allow for Ciel to soak in the news, before Sir Hughes begins again (which does little to lessen the heat of Wright's boiling stare), "It is said that some of these villagers are crying out that the disease is a . . . a _devil_ and it will get to them all ultimately if they cannot escape beyond its reach. The tale is so dismaying that a few officers were frightened themselves. Some villagers take advantage of that weakness and attempt to force their way through the barricades. Of course, these villagers would be punished as deserved. Some moderate beating, perhaps. Something to instill in these reckless villagers that the ones wielding the authority are the officers. There is still an appalling throng of villagers outside the city of London _right now_, wailing to be let in. In fact, some minor roads were blocked because of them, and traffic is magnified here and there. Nonetheless, the Royal Family does well to hide this fact as much as possible, to not alarm the polite society."

"I see," Ciel murmurs, and his eyebrows furrow. "Then how are you and Marquis Wright so knowledgeable about this, again?"

"Well . . ." The hesitation is unmistakable as a sore thumb. Sir Hughes uneasily looks over to Wright, who retakes the reins of the conversation.

"Didn't I tell you earlier?" Wright snaps. "We went through one of the infected villages on the way to my factory. They are a rambunctious bunch!"

Ciel supposes Wright must have gotten into a clash with the villagers, and has been testy with the subject since then. "Do you know how many villages are infected?"

He shrugs. "How should I know? Maybe around . . . seven . . . no, eight."

Something—it is unfeasible to explain _what_ exactly, but it ruthlessly seizes him, steeping the numbing sense of absolute _dread _to channel through his veins, clamping his heart. His palms are clammy and sticky against his cane, and he trembles ever so slightly. It is queer, inexplicable feeling, an aspect he cannot fathom, but it is deathly strong.

Wright and Hughes do not fail to perceive the abrupt anxiety consuming the young boy. "I must ask, though," Wright says, bursting out in a laugh, "why do you look so worried for the villagers? It has nothing to do with us, _Earl of Phantomhive_. They can all just be annihilated for all I care. My factory will be able to provide the foods for our country!" Hughes imitates him, chuckling.

"Can you name the eight villages?" Ciel dismisses the ridicule, holding onto his cane tightly in an exertion to retain his composure. The vibrating phenomenon in all parts of his body, a foreboding of some sort, is conglomerating to the very center: his head, issuing a violent ache. That _something_ is biting at him from the obscure fissures of his mind. His tongue is leaping around that indistinct word he is urgently seeking for.

The two nobles exchange a questioning glance, before Hughes' eyes wander to the ceiling in reflection, and he answers him, "Hm . . . I believe the one Marquis Wright and I traveled through is called Bardsley"—it pummels Ciel so that he wants to choke—"there's also Pettigrew, Queshire, Richardson . . . and I'll have to gather the rest from Scotland Yard—"

"That is not necessary." Now, he understands this irrepressible drive to vomit, the power sweeping forth from the stem of his throat: it is fear. Fear for _them_. The village of Bardsley. There is no misconception; he was told of this name before, by a cheerful woman who also invited him to visit sometime.

He never did, of course.

Now he wonders if it is too late.

"Ah! Rier! Yes, the village of Rier was definitely one of them," Sir Hughes declares confidently, with a self-satisfied grin slapped upon his face. "As you know, Marquis Wright, I have this useful capacity for memory. I remember _precisely_ everything that has occurred to me." He winks significantly to Wright, and the latter scowls and shifts uncertainly. A high-strung atmosphere commences, falling flat on the three like a thorny blanket.

"Drinks, sirs?" a waiter asks, having approached them, with a silver plate of drinks.

"No thank you," they all state simultaneously. Wright then unhappily places his empty glass on the plate.

"Actually . . . I _do_ need a refreshment, after all of this," Hughes asserts, examining the blood red substance in the glasses, with a hand cupped beneath his chin. Disappointed, he pulls back to regain his personal space. "Would you lead me to a wider variety of refreshments? I am in the mood for brandy."

The waiter nods in compliance, and Hughes smiles at Ciel and Wright. "I will take my leave now. Sorry to interrupt." His smile develops into an implied smirk, when he regards Wright. The jaws of Wright flex, as he grinds his teeth together. It is impressive, they have adeptly masqueraded their latent hostility for one another. Putting aside their fictitious relationship, he has to consider which one of them is really playing the cards.

Wright barely spares Ciel a second glance, muttering lowly, "Well, you go on and enjoy yourself."

When he, too, departs to somewhere else, alleviation settles, and Ciel releases a trapped sigh. His mind instantly sharpens, as he supplies himself with another objective. He must further investigate the case of the disease and how it is affecting the villagers. _Your Majesty, just what are you thinking? You have plenty to handle as it is. You are in need of my aid._ He picks himself from the wall, inhales deeply to brace himself, and maneuvers through the crowd, jostling encumbering persons aside with his cane. He has wasted too much time, Sebastian has yet to report to him of any inconsistencies, and Lau is waltzing with Ran-Mao. Progress is at zero._  
_

He wanders about for quite a while, his astute eye surveying for any suspicious character. On a handful of occasions, nobles would stop him and ask for a dance, but he would swiftly decline them. At last, he finds himself obtaining refuge at the _other_ side of the wall. He remains there, in utter disconnection with everyone else, for about half an hour, when without warning:

"Earl? Earl of Phantomhive?" a voice shouts in the distance. Ciel cringes.

_Viscount Chambers_ is slicing through the multitude of people with incredible celerity, inducing heads to turn. "_Oh_, you youthful boy with an eyepatch!"

Suffused with terror, his feet is rooted to the ground. _No, do _not_ come to me! _he craves to shriek to the exceptionally theatrical imbecile—or rather, he yearns to plunge into the impenetrable depths of dirt and conceal himself from this vanquishing situation that subdues his strength to move.

"Oh, Earl—"

_BANG!_

He freezes.

_BANG!_

The crowd is paralyzed.

_BANG!_

It is eerily still, silent. The slightest whisper can be detected. Yet in the hindmost of everyone's mind, there exists that sinking, _hideous_ feeling of premonition, creeping steadily onward until it unfurls throughout the body to crush it of all resistance. Shadows cackle in wicked delight, morphing with one another to embody consternation.

His eye is trained on the Viscount, who is the most motionless of them all.

But then, the Viscount raises a wobbly finger at the stairway.

Commonly, all eyes transfer to where he is pointing. At the top of the stairway, is Sir Hughes, alone. He is standing upright, staring at them with an unforgettably ghastly look that is seemingly begging for help. From his head, blood is pooling. With each second grating harshly to a slow, his body collapses. It falls delicately against the steps, sliding and skidding with no foothold, until it arrives at the bottom. Sir Hughes lands on his neck, and a sickening crack resonates in the ballroom.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wright—and he almost misses it—breathing a sigh of _relief_.

What comes next is the _scream_. The bloodcurdling scream. No one knows who it originated from, but it sets off a chain reaction. One by one, until it fills the entire ballroom, fear channels to the surface, and vociferous screams ignite. Pandemonium lays its hammer upon them; the mass of nobles stampedes toward any accessible exits, running, tripping, and screeching at the top of their lungs.

The killer has made his move. Now is his chance.

"Sebastian!" Ciel commands. "Block all exits! Make sure no one leaves before we verify their innocence to this murder!"

He can hear the demon's smooth reply, "Yes, My Lord."

Immediately, all doors are barred shut, right into the faces of some of the nobles. The caged room does not mitigate the chaos or produce any sense of security, and instead, heightens the turmoil. A few people faint, enslaved by the portentous control of fear.

"Silence!" Ciel shouts, his mind racing. "We must find the culprit! It is highly plausible that he is among us!"

"I have an alibi! I was with Mistress Tyrell!" a man shrieks, which instigates a confounding sequence of announcements of their alibis. People begin to list off the individuals they were with when Sir Hughes was killed, to justify their assertions that they are guiltless.

"Wait!" someone yells, pointing to Ciel then to Marquis Wright. "I saw them conversing with Sir Hughes earlier!"

"That does not imply anything," the Earl of Phantomhive argues. "He later left with a waiter."

The waiter pipes up, accused, "Sir, I led him to the refreshments, where an abundant of people were present. They can be the witnesses—I did not do anything to harm Sir Hughes. I would not dare to."

"Indeed, I conversed with those two," Marquis Wright admits. "However, I went to talk to the Duke of Giles"—the indicated man nods in agreement—"and I was with him until this tragedy transpired. But, Earl of Phantomhive, what were _you_ doing?"

Caught off guard by the sudden imputation of blame, Ciel seethes at him, but then realizes the grave disadvantage thrust upon him by being a wallflower, when someone adds, "That's right . . . I haven't even seen a _glimpse_ of him until now. In fact, I was not even made aware that he attended this ball!"

"Wait, that is the Earl of Phantomhive, right?"

"I thought he was relieved of his duties permanently!"

"No, I heard it was only temporarily."

"Why was he suspended again?"

"Didn't he . . ."

"Didn't he _kill_ someone a couple of years ago?"

"I thought that was overlooked!"

"I heard he did kill a noblesse and then convinced the Queen to let him off easy with a suspension!"

The tables have drastically turned against him, causing him to be at a thwarting loss of words to defend his own honor. Ciel is being callously cornered by these desperate predators who have rashly embarked on a quest to pin the crime as quickly as possible to the most susceptible target, so that their own names will be clean and free from moral wrong.

Wright directs his index finger at Ciel. "You weren't with anyone for the last half of the ball, were you? So you have no alibi! Furthermore, you also have a debatable record of killing a noblesse in the past! Aren't you the most likely culprit?"

Ciel scowls at the untrustworthy man. They had briefly made _eye contact_ while he was idling away at the other side of the wall. Wright, himself, had witnessed that Ciel did not so much as move from his stationary spot against the wall to slay Hughes, but he is speaking against him for his own sake.

His eye skims the crowd, and he can only perceive petrified, wary expressions. Lau and Ran-Mao, far into the swarm, gaze at him skeptically, not knowing what to do. Ciel ponders if he can rely on Sebastian and get him to confirm his innocence in this crime, but he _is_ his butler so naturally—

"He _must_ be the culprit, then!"

"Who else can it be?"

The ache in his head, that has quieted to a dull throb, intensifies again, at the spate and outpouring of accusations. The pointing of fingers from everyone alike, as well as the unrestrained cries, put his mind into disorder. The indiscriminate yells, he cannot undergo and think calmly through, with his pulsating mind tearing itself to pieces. The room is spinning, tipping wildly. It is a scary thought to know that his frail knees can collapse at any given moment, but he will not be able to prevent this at all in his impaired state.

Then, a warm hand grasps his shoulder, stabilizing him.

"Ciel didn't kill him."

The Earl of Phantomhive is shocked to the extent that he has thoroughly stiffened. He is sure that the other can feel him shivering involuntarily.

"He was with me all along."

His former rival steps up from behind him. There, before him, is the momentous image he has ingrained into his memories: the swaying platinum blond fringes, the crystal blue eyes, and the gentle smile that graces his lips.

"Isn't that right, Ciel?"


	4. Unfitting of a Gentleman

**Compulsion - Chapter 4: _Unfitting of a Gentleman_**

**Extremely epic, award-worthy announcement: I have defeated the three-chapter curse—it was deadly to battle.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.**

* * *

Is it appropriate for him to freeze up at this crucial moment?

No, probably he should not—absolutely _not_—be losing the requisite strength of his cognitive senses, and admitting defeat to his petty emotions. But even if he can muster enough intelligence to form that judgment, he cannot summon the inner force to expel the dense imaginary cloth that has tightly folded his muscles and hemmed in his body.

He is wrong; in retrospect, the arrival of this person does not assist in alleviating his headache at all. In fact, the violent shock of it, in the evil manifestation of electric coils, reverberates continuously in his mind. He must look very foolish, an ignoramus moron, with his mouth slightly agape and his eyes staring impertinently, absurdly at his companion. Not a single word manages to trail out from the wide gap he has afforded.

An uncontrollable barrage of questions ignite, swirling in streams, in his mental domain, allowing him no rest. Once it gathers momentum, it evolves to an insurmountable might that overtakes him, pulling forth from his chest an oafish splutter that is supposed to be the first of the many questions that have impetuously lined themselves up in a rashly prepared order.

The boy—or perhaps he should say "man"—no, he must not present to him that high of a praise; he is unworthy of it due to his prolonged absence—or is he just tossing a childish justification in the air and hoping it would suit—

_Stop!_

It is amazing, really, what this perturbing person is already capable of doing: just his presence alone has induced for Ciel to have a ridiculous battle with himself and to avoid and obstruct _his own thoughts_, in which, are developing to a sheer annoyance at a startlingly fast pace.

The person in front of him has definitely cultivated his masculine features; he has grown yet again, by several centimeters this time (Ciel refuses to be towered over by seemingly everyone that comes across him), and although he is still relatively lean, his muscle mass is more delineated than before. Both of his chin and brow are prominent, the shape of his jaw is chiseled. His voice, when he has spoken, has apparently deepened by a few minor but notable degrees. His cerulean orbs, expressing the softest gradation of blue, are piercing and keen, as though finely sharpened by enriching experience and acquired wisdom. He has a very particular outfit that consists of a regency tailcoat that is hunter green with velvet trim; black fall front trousers, with elastic y-back braces; a black baker city vest; a dress shirt with a high stand collar; a black cotton cravat; black preacher boots; and completing the exquisite apparel is a Mavericks glass handle walking stick. He emits a clean, wholesome scent. His superlative sophistication supplements to Ciel's astonishment.

"There is not a need to panic," the person says smoothly to the crowd, his bemusing smile holding much mystery, with his palm still resting upon Ciel's shoulder. "Since I was with him, after all, I can stand as witness that he has not committed any sins."

A short silence ensues, with each individual distraught, until one noble voices his opinion, "It is not like we can trust _you_, either! From what I can recall, you are usually in cahoots with Earl Phantomhive!"

"You're just going to have to take my word for it. You have no evidence that Ciel has done anything other than baseless assumptions, correct?" he retaliates, his tone collected and tranquil, his composure extraordinarily unblemished. He has made his vindication with such flawless assertion and unassailable self-confidence, that it compels the man into a state of reticence.

This person . . . it is Alois Trancy and yet it is _not_ him.

The Alois he remembers is apt to eccentricity and unpredictability when declaring his side in an argument, the farthest thing from calmness. If someone so much as refutes him, his mercurial and fickle nature will emerge and he will unleash upon his opponent his erratic, and often unbecoming of a noble, comments and actions; the brunt of his crudeness will not be concealed.

What has happened to _that_ Alois? The one before him is almost a stranger, to say the least.

"We want to hear from the Earl of Phantomhive himself! Has he actuated such a horrible murder?" a marquess demands, hurling at Ciel a distasteful look and directing to him a pointy, blood-red fingernail rather contemptuously.

Alois turns his head to Ciel, and the moment they establish eye contact, it comes to his mortifying realization that he has been staring at his companion for far too long, while trying to decipher him. Embarrassed, Ciel consciously obliges himself to close his mouth, and hastily averts his gaze with a scoff.

Earl Trancy returns to the crowd, squeezing his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he perceives as Alois bites back what should be a mischievous smile and proclaims, "Unfortunately, it appears like a cat has gotten the tongue of poor Earl Phantomhive over here, so my statement will have to suffice. . . . He is probably much too _delighted_ by the sight of me."

_Oh, never mind_, Ciel internally grumbles, suppressing a groan and an indignant roll of his eyes; _he is just as obnoxious as ever_.

"The Scotland Yard should be arriving soon," Marquis Wright's booming voice echos in the confines of the unpropitious ballroom, snagging the center of attention. Everyone, naturally, shift their heads to the man. His eyes brusquely slide over to Ciel and Alois, where they narrow disdainfully, before he re-addresses the crowd. "After all, one of my butlers standing outside must have heard the gunshots and went to fetch them."

"But, what if the _butler_ is the killer?" someone yells, frantically looking about. As ludicrous as his suggestion is, it is sufficient to proliferate the abundance of fear existing in everyone, until it hangs over all of them consistently, an oppression upon their shoulders. The fear of the unknown is, incontrovertibly, powerful.

However, before anyone can further speculate, nerve-wracking sobs burst in the hindmost of the room, near one of the exits. A distressed woman is slobbering against it, quite in an uncouth, unrefined manner, pounding and clawing weakly at the doorknobs. She appears to no longer possess any sort of energy, her movements sluggish but regular, and is just drilling mindlessly against the door in hopes of escaping.

"I don't want to die! I don't want to die! I just want to _leave_!" Frenzied, her hands thread furiously through her bulk of disheveled hair. "Don't you understand?" The volume of her voice fluctuates wildly, slithering from stentorian heights, where each word is uttered with choked cries, to chilling, quiet whispers, gurgling with omen. "I don't think you understand! The longer we stay here . . . the killer will get us all! He will get us all! _Each_ and _every_ one of us, and he won't let us go!"

Anxious glances of the nobles skirt cursorily over the crowd, as they unanimously seek guidance from a charismatic individual. It is patently evident that everyone is pining for a person to pop out and announce that this is all a frivolous joke, a very puerile one indeed. Nevertheless, the uproarious train of reality has collided into the minds of all, making the inherently fantastic idea of this as being tomfoolery rather difficult to conceive.

Everyone is rejecting the proposal of investigating upstairs, where the murder happened. There are an intrepid, audacious few who offered to (one of them being none other than the invigorated Lau), but the cynical Earl of Durant, who is a notorious wallflower much like himself, has finally spoken up and questioned Lau's intentions, "Why must you go up there? Planning to destroy the evidence, are you?" The accusation is bewildering; it stitches Lau's mouth to a close and it constricts his enthusiasm, until he mutely sulks with Ran-Mao. Although groundless, the concept that one may aim to erase whatever signs may be present up there is much too frightening to allow the chances to come to effect. There are inelaborate conjectures that the killer may still be upstairs, but Sebastian tells him otherwise, informing him that the killer has disappeared. As proficient as the mysterious killer is in evading Sebastian, Ciel cannot rule out the possibility that one of the nobles in this very room has hired a hitman to dispose of Sir Hughes; that circumstance is much too likely.

Ciel feels the hand abandoning his shoulder, and looks over to his companion. Alois has an eyebrow quirked inquisitively, while observing as a couple of people strenuously attempt to pry the overwrought woman from the door. Her clamor becomes unduly hysterical, gashing his eardrums. "She lost her mind pretty quickly, didn't she?" Alois comments with mild interest, twirling the walking stick in his palm.

If asked to elucidate, Ciel would not be able to provide a logical reason to his actions either. However, watching as Alois behave so worldly-wise, polished, and genteel is beginning to rub off a negative effect, implanting a small taste of repulse. And thus, Ciel simply ignores him altogether and says under his breath, "Sebastian, this is an order: contact the Yards and give a synopsis of what has happened here. Do so anonymously. If the Yards can deal with this unbridled bunch, I can well be on my way. I've got important matters to attend to."

The reply of "Yes, My Lord" rumbles fleetingly by his ears before vanishing just as quickly.

"Talking to your invisible butler, eh?" Alois inquires, tilting his head as if to demonstrate that he is baffled. Though, that is extremely preposterous to do as they both have their share of demons. At an oblique angle, he can see as Alois absentmindedly brush some imperceptible dust off his forearm and stimulate the rotation of his walking stick some more. It is such an unhinging sight, to discern that Alois has developed into a stranger; he has become a prudish _gentleman_, concerned with cleanliness and his appearance. From a conflicting perspective, it is a good, harmless, and perhaps serviceable thing, he supposes, that Alois has matured. Yet, Ciel cannot expunge the incomprehensible and perplexing disgust lingering in his chest.

To himself, Ciel shakes his head. He needs to return to the peace of his study so that he can decently reflect on the events of this ball. Indubitably, the skeptical Scotland Yard officers will propel a deluge of queries his way, but if he can just manage to survive that dizzying, wearisome stage, he can retreat to the comforts of his townhouse and never crawl outside again unless it is unequivocally required for him to. He has attended a social event. _There_. Now, he will use this as his crutch and decline having to attend anything else for another twenty-five years at best.

"Unbelievable," Alois' sharp voice penetrates his thoughts, "you are _ignoring_ me, aren't you?"

The Earl of Phantomhive cannot resist the impulse to roll his eyes, this time—it surprises even him, is he throwing a noiseless fit? But just when he was rolling his eyes, his vision conveniently lands on Lau and Ran-Mao who are forging a path to him. The fashion in which Lau is dynamically bouncing toward him shows that he has nothing better to do and is questing for small talk until Scotland Yard arrives. He inhibits himself from slapping a palm to his forehead and promptly spins on his heels to find a secure, unobtrusive spot to dawdle at.

Although he is trying to rid himself of a forthcoming burden, another burden is dragged along with him. Alois follows him easily, as if they are _friends_. There is none whatsoever the potentiality that he is well-acquainted with this stranger. His stomach lurches with repugnance, but this time, toward himself. There it is again, that unreasonable tantrum. He wonders briefly if this unjustified act can even be classified as a tantrum as it largely consists of a silent, moody treatment.

Alois contorts his face incredulously, as Ciel picks up his pace to lose him, with shoulders taut and posture stiff and rigid. "That's outrageous. You really _are_ ignoring me."

His reiteration of the obvious is grating on his nerves, causing him to seethe a little but he hastily amends his faulty demeanor. Not to mention, Alois' tireless pursuit—his long legs grant him an unfair advantage—is exhausting Ciel, who has to invest more in physical exertion to maintain a modest distance from Earl Trancy.

"Care to explain why you're ignoring me, your _savior_?"

Something snaps in his composure, and Ciel roughly halts, actuating Alois to stumble into a stop as well. Infuriated, the Earl of Phantomhive feels the blood channeling to his face, as he musters as much raw savagery as he can to boost his scowl.

"No one asked for you to save me, Trancy!" Ciel scolds angrily, his frown twitching so much that his eyepatch starts to irritate his skin and he desires to scratch.

Alois gawks at him, taken back. Ciel assumes leaving him in a confounded state is enough for him to be inclined toward a measly sensation of victory. But, Alois' next actions shatter and quash his optimism: he suddenly grabs at his abdomen and _laughs_. For him to be chuckling at this time is not only incongruous (those within juxtaposition are thwarted by the lack of seriousness, and they gape at him out of condemnation), but it also installs self-consciousness, as Ciel's mind races to construe what it is that he has said that has made it so insultingly comical.

Eventually, the Earl of Trancy ceases his agitating laughter, wholly oblivious to the rebuking stares he is receiving. "So _that's_ the first thing you say to me, after so long? To think that _the_ Ciel Phantomhive would throw a tantrum so openly," he teases, "that is unfitting of a gentleman."

Ciel could have snickered at such a farcical assertion, "You, in yourself, are unfitting of a gentleman!"

He fluffs his suit, indifferently. How loathsome. "Pardon?"

"I," Ciel clears his throat, acknowledging that he has not made much sense, "I meant it essence-wise."

Alois retains a puzzled expression, and when his azure eyes drift to the ceiling as he attempts to assess Ciel's "clarification," Ciel's ears prickle with the heat of abashment, and he impatiently retorts, "Oh, never mind! You'll never understand."

"Because you're so _confusing_," Alois whines, his shoulders drooping a bit. Ciel almost thinks he saw the remnants of the old Alois, but then Alois speedily straightens his spine.

The both of them refrain from saying anything for a while, perceiving as a couple of nobles clench their heads (most of them have disturbingly receded to dour, sullen conditions, curling in against the walls or whatever solid, and maintaining a wary, discreet vigil over everyone else). Alois then instigates a conversation, "Aren't you going to ask?"

Ciel greets Alois' newly formed smirk with a deepening frown. "Ask what?"

"I know you were curious," Alois affirms with a roguish grin, folding his arms, the walking stick dangling listlessly by his side. Ciel concentrates on observing as it sways softly to and fro.

"Hardly anything about you sparks my interest," Ciel remarks unpleasantly, the edge of his voice scathing and virulent.

He notices as the smirk slips from Alois' lips; he presses them into a hard line instead, and he speaks strangely, dispirited by Ciel's latent hostility, "About where I was for the past year."

At this, Ciel bristles up, but he adamantly denies favoring Alois with the sight of seeing him intrigued. "I can care less."

"Not in the least, huh?" The question has come out queerly, almost like a statement. There is something about Alois' conduct that is odd, as though he is growing detached by the second.

Ciel is disconcerted by the distant expression Alois is wearing, but he refuses to submit himself, and his mouth moves on its own discretion, "You've always been an annoyance, Alois."

He appears to have driven Alois away too far, and all of the Earl of Trancy's mirth from before entirely dissipates like a crumbling leaf. "All right then." He exhales dispassionately, as though _bored_, and his sky-blue eyes desert him, already wandering to a few acquaintances of his.

If Ciel had been forewarned, perhaps he would have chosen a different route; for, Alois abruptly turns around and walks elsewhere, having lost all concern for him. The curt departure, admittedly, deals a potent blow to his composure, and Ciel nearly takes a step forward in his direction. But, instead, his hand knots up to his cane, as he stands alone again.

He realizes that he has been firm, unbending, and provokingly evasive, invariably dodging anything that may be inconsequential to his duties. However, that practice of avoiding being self-indulgently carefree has been ingrained into his nature; he cannot help it, he has set illiberal limits for himself, so that he can attain revenge for the Phantomhive family as soon as possible. But, Alois should _know_ that. He should be aware that as stringent as he is to himself, there is always a tenuous crack, if one searches earnestly, a negligible aperture in him; if Alois had prodded him peskily, if he had persistently done so, ultimately, Ciel would have opened up a little bit. Alois has performed as such so many times before in the past, and it stuns him that he has given up so plainly, without even trying.

Not that he should blame him, of course. Though now, he inwardly inquires why he has been anticipating his reunion with Alois; it has been revealed to be considerably anticlimactic, chiefly due to his own unyielding self. Wistfully, he looks down at the glistening ring embracing his thumb, as he hears the Scotland Yard officers barge in through the doors. They will be approaching him soon, certainly, but he does not care much for the fruitless interrogation.

And, as inferred, Ciel is the prime target of a flood of questions of where he was during the time, what was he doing, and who did he attend the party with. He unemotionally responded to each query in a terse, straightforward, and unswerving manner, not once faltering or flinching when they spit imputations of guilt.

In the meantime, he executes a dive into his pool of thoughts. Supposing the killer is working with someone here at the winter ball, he will have to calculate the untrustworthy individuals. There is a number of them, such as the Earl of Durant or the waiter, but Marquis Wright is definitely the most suspicious of them all. He will have to personally catechize the man.

About an hour later, the Scotland Yard officers have documented their various accounts and accumulated adequate information. When they take into custody Sir Hughes' deceased body, however, they discover a ripped piece of paper in Sir Hughes' breast pocket. Scrawled on the paper, is his full name presented fancily: Aaron Hughes. The cursive is beautifully designed, with the _e_'s bizarrely extravagant, but that is the long and short of it. Aside from the name there is nothing else written on it. It has muddled plentiful of minds, including Ciel's, as to why Sir Hughes would compose his own name on a piece of paper and then stick it in his pocket. It is an unfathomable enigma.

The nobles are free to go; there is not an acceptable amount of evidence to reproach anyone, as it seems. But, Ciel has reason to believe otherwise.

Returning to the night sky is mollifying. With Sebastian once again by his side, they travel specifically to a parked carriage, shoes clicking against the pavement. As they do as such, Ciel gathers as much succulent air as he can clutch onto, packing his lungs with the refreshing bliss after having smothered himself in insufferable perfume.

"Your parole," his butler warns in a hushed voice.

"Do not heed to him. We are simply taking a stroll with our 'friend.'"

Sebastian opens the door to the carriage, and Ciel climbs in right next to Marquis Wright.

Close to a heart attack, Wright all but explodes in his seat with shock. Without hardship, Sebastian manipulates the coach driver to move aside and huddle in the corner as he takes over the reins.

By the time the carriage has begun to advance, Wright's expressions have already filtered through astonishment, fear, then belligerence. "What the hell do you think you're—"

Ciel's pistol digs into his temple; he has uncovered it from the folds of his coat. "It's not your turn to speak, I'm afraid."

Wright breathes noisily through his nostrils, in frustration, clenching his hands into balls at his laps. Carefully, he says, "You're the killer, aren't you? _I knew it_. But, let me inform you, killing me will be of no good use to you. Unless you are doing this for the Midford family. In that case, this is simply ridiculous—"

Ciel sighs, tedium eddying at his head. "Truly, I have no patience for this. My fingers are itching to pull the trigger, so be quiet." Of course, Ciel is not the type of person who would shoot someone else—that is excessive—unless for self-defense. But, to instill terror is a separate matter, and an activity he reprehensibly enjoys; it facilitates the process of examination quite significantly. The tip of the pistol pokes further into his skin, and he notes as Wright cringe, though his countenance remains grim. "You can drop the act now, Mr. Wright. My hypothesis is that you are, in actuality, very relieved with Sir Hughes' death, am I right?"

Wright's eyes widen at this notion, and he grips his pants. But other than that, he does not respond.

"I'll take that as an affirmative reply."

"You—"

"There is more to my hypothesis."

Wright frowns.

"My guess is . . . you have ordered for a hitman or likewise to assassinate Sir Hughes."

"_Rubbish_!" Wright bellows, saliva spewing from his mouth, his eyes bloodshot. "I have done no such thing! Do not accuse me wrongly, _boy_! I don't take kindly to that!"

A bullet slicing through the roof of the carriage effectively silences him. Ciel, having freshly unleashed a destructive bullet, points the pistol back to Wright. "Bite your tongue. Do not overreact or the next one may enter your head."

Enraged, Wright furls and unfurls his fists, and he huffs in a fit of resentment. He appears to be in a strife with himself, as he deliberates on what to do. Slowly, he calms his nerves and then says with positivism, "I did not order for anyone to assassinate Sir Hughes. His death came as a surprise to me as well."

Ciel is not one to be deceived so artlessly. "You were relieved by his death, were you not? I saw you myself. No one would be relieved by a friend's death unless you orchestrated for this to happen."

"No, I did not!" Wright shouts and then ogles the pistol restlessly. Chipping off several degrees to his volume, he states, "Why would I orchestrate for this death? He is my friend, like you have said yourself."

Ciel narrows his eyes. "Unless he has done something that made you rather upset with him."

Wright draws back, refusing to institute eye contact. His lips are constrained together tightly.

"Silence will not help you. Now, tell me."

"Remind me why I am liable to—"

Ciel shoots twice, once through the roof again and the other at Wright's window. When the treacherous bullet cuts implacably through the air near his face, he flies apart with overmastering alarm, yelping and casting himself against his seat timidly.

"I . . . I understand your business now, Phantomhive. It's terrible," Wright mutters in between gasps. "Forcing people into speaking against their will—"

The pistol plunges into his neck. "It's wonderful that we're all now well-acquainted with each other, but I will need you to answer my questions. Were you relieved by his death?"

Wright gapes at the pistol nervously. "I . . . I s-suppose there's a bit of relief there . . . somewhere. Perhaps a little—"

"And, why are you relieved?"

Wright scowls at the peremptory interruption, shaking his head. "Well, it's not because I orchestrated the kill, if that's what you're thinking. I would never soil my reputation in that way. I am a respectable man, and I need to live with my head held high"—he shrinks when the pistol weighs heavily against him—"All right, so I'm relieved! What of it? He's an annoying man! It doesn't necessarily mean I killed him! He is just annoying! Why do I need to explain what I feel so minutely? I do not like him, so when he died, I am glad that he is gone. Would _that_ suffice? You . . . you have to work with him to know how annoying he is!"

Ciel is doubtful it is as simple as that. "I do not work with him, so I don't know how annoying he is. Care to give an example?"

With the pistol pressing harshly against the man, it is made apparent that it is not a request by far: it is a command.

A groan is exacted from Wright, who then crumples over. For an appalling moment, Ciel is misled into thinking he has accidentally shot the man. However, Wright soon sits back up, massaging his face with his hands, fatigued.

"It was back at that blasted Bardsley Village," Wright mumbles reluctantly. "I'll . . . I'll tell you what happened . . . but you have to believe me when I say I did not arrange for his death!"

"Yes, yes," Ciel mutters tiredly. Wright looks worried by his flagrant apathy, but Ciel is not about to reassure him that he already knows that Wright is being honest. "Just hurry it up."

Wright grits his teeth in exasperation. "Well, Sir Hughes has accompanied me there, as you are aware. It was there, that I did something _horrible_, so to speak, and Sir Hughes witnessed it."

"Tell me."

The man winces, shuddering at the pistol. "First, can you please remove that thing from my neck? Don't worry, I won't hurt a puny boy like you . . . even though, you are readily willing to hurt me," he complains. "You know, your waving of a gun around so recklessly is unfitting of a gentleman."

Sebastian stifles a chuckle. Ciel scowls. "Shut up."

Only when the gun is sheathed, Wright is satisfied and he gradually eases into his seat. "At any rate, remember when I told you the villagers are a rambunctious bunch? It was not travesty. I hated them, and they hated me. And on that day I was particularly stressed and angry. And so, when I saw them all blocking my way without a care in the world, I . . ."

The man so inordinately filled with pride trembles, and when he hesitatingly opens his mouth again, he begins to tell his story.


	5. Hungry Beast and Angry Human

**Compulsion - Chapter 5: _Hungry Beast and Angry Human__  
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**Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.**

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The sweat—the unendurable, _sticky_ substance—plasters her rags against her skin in an extremely uncomfortable way. Fretfully, she bundles her hair up by boorishly gripping it in her palm, to allow for some much needed, yet deficient air to glide by her damp neck. The scorching heat of the sun continues to beat down on her deeply tanned skin, searing it with its overly enthusiastic energy.

Squinting at the clear and cloudless sky, which stretches in infinitude to encompass the yellow hot ball, she experiences phenomenal refraction, with wavy lines distorting her vision, as though the sky itself is simmering. The air is very contracted around her, as if grappled by an uncompromising fist, where only slivers of a light breeze can slip through the rifts of its fingers; she is driven to breathe heavily to placate her oppressed lungs.

Surrounding her is an abundance of rickety, dilapidated cabins, strewed with wood and straw, that, as a whole, constitute their village. A wide dirt road winds through the village, ringing around small hills, and extends to the very borderline of the area. There are scarcely any trees, and even those that are present have little flesh to boast of, the branches meager and seemingly blackened by the sun. Great expanses of farm land sweep along the rear of the cabins, but they too are insubstantial; inadequately nourished, languishing in the flush of the sunshine, and decaying at its own painful time, the crops are rotting.

"Fetch some water fer Miss Miller down yonder, will ya? Her son's actin' up again. I've got to go to harvest some herbs fer 'im."

"Yes, ma'am," she loudly replies, without turning around to register the owner of the voice that she knows all too well. Barefoot, and varnished with grime, she scrambles across the earthy road. She stumbles to a stop quite incautiously, her toes scraping up the dirt, as her agile feet perform a complete twist. She rushes back to the cabin and snatches the worn bucket set by the door.

Subsequently, she races down the road and climbs a hill, a specific destination entrenched in her mind. The stone well that all the residents share is rooted rigidly at the central point of the village. Shortly, she notes that the line is basically nonexistent today and ruminates if more people have gotten too ill to venture outside. Quickly blotting out the undesirable thought, she approaches it, and attaches the bucket to the rope. With utmost carefulness, she lowers the bucket into the well—which has been amply curtailed in volume in comparison to yesterday; their vital supply is a paucity—and drowns it in the liquid of life.

Afterward, she retrieves the bucket and gingerly balances it in the grasp of both of her hands, so that she does not drop it. She wobbles toward the road once again. Coiling around a few more cabins, and faithfully following the convoluted path, she finally reaches a particular shelter.

A look of relief surges over the features of Miss Miller, who has been anticipating her arrival. She puts down the bucket, and Miss Miller holds out a cracked bowl. She fills the bowl with the water and then heads in the cabin, led by Miss Miller.

"Wake up, Jeremiah," Miss Miller says soothingly to the afflicted boy sleeping on the floor. Suddenly, the boy heaves, his right hand excavating into his left wrist, until he leaves behind horrible nail marks. His emaciated body rocks turbulently, as if he is ensnared in a seizure, and he coughs violently to the side. Miss Miller anxiously tries to steady him, while she stands there limply, with the bowl drawn out in an unheeded gesture. Queasiness always permeates her stomach whenever she is given his debilitated sight, especially since her friend used to be so vibrant, sprightly, and brisk. Bronze locks are matted down with perspiration and unkempt by the crumpled cloth he lies upon. Grisly pale like a specter, his cheeks have sunken, and his eyes are hollow; he is gaunt and haggard with the ineffable disease eating at him.

He groans, the low, mournful sound so familiar to the ears of the villagers that it constantly reverberates, never escaping their home. Nearly half of them are infected, contaminated with the ravenous beast that preys indiscriminately: old men, mothers, uncles, children, newborns, countless have been the target of its mania.

The defeated Jeremiah laments with the agony of being slowly swallowed, but also with the shame and disappointment that he has to be the one to contain the beast inside him. He had cried to her many times before, asking her, demanding to God, why did it had to be _him_? Why was it him when he is so young? She was speechless then, and now, as she cannot, for the life of her, grant a respectable answer.

What was she supposed to say anyway? That she wished it was her instead of him? It sounds contemptible, even to her, a half-hearted conferment of sympathy, because they both know that their positions are not reverse no matter how much one indulges in illusion. Was she supposed to say she hoped he will get better soon? That sounds wretched, as well—_cruel_, even. Those, once enmeshed with the beast that can only be tamed by remedies but never eradicated, will have the unquenchable beast feed off their essence until they eventually, inevitably, ineludibly deteriorate and cease to exist. He had grieved to her on innumerable occasions, declaring that he has not yet done anything significant, he has yet to embark beyond the village. He was too young, he was too young, he would recite to her. He would bother her persistently, urgently, over and over again, asking her if he was to die would she cry. How could she say anything other than yes?

After the coughing fit, Jeremiah struggles to sit up straight, his rawboned legs shaking. His neck bows low, almost submissively, his moist bangs splattered over his forehead. In a _selfish_ way, she was glad that he was not looking at her directly, as his eyes, she would not be able to bear the sorrow and emptiness of them.

Miss Miller assuages him, gently patting his back and supporting him. "See there, Jere? Your friend Alice is 'ere to see you."

In response, she folds her legs behind her, crouching to her knees. Cupping the bowl, she thrusts it toward him. "Got you some water, Jere. You gotta drink it an' gain a lil' strength. Can't 'ave you lazin' 'bout now." She has attempted meek humor to disencumber the somber atmosphere, at least by a bit, but the manner in which Jeremiah has clutched the bowl, hastily consumed the water, then tossed the bowl aside portrays his resentment.

Guilty that she was accidentally judged as inconsiderate, Alice retreats to reservation, as Jeremiah whines softly in anguish. She traces the straw carpet, its stalks poking irritatingly into her finger. She politely waits until he has calmed down before rising to her feet.

"Well then, I've gotta go 'round to the others an' pass out water—"

"Can I come with you?" Jeremiah suddenly speaks up, alarming both Alice and Miss Miller with his unforeseen and downright unthinkable request. When Alice and Miss Miller exchanged uncertain, worried glances, it seems to have necessitated Jeremiah to reiterate and insist, "Please, can I come with you? I—I can walk."

To demonstrate, he hurriedly gathers to his feet, wincing slightly. His equipoise is very affected and disproportionate, and he nearly falls, but Miss Miller catches him. An inscrutable burst of anger overtakes his dark eyes, and he furiously shrugs her off. "_Please_, Alice, can I please join you?" He is already stumbling toward her, his actions dictated by sheer despair and the exigency to depart from the accursed enclosure of his house. Desperation reflects in each of his tremulous steps, until he falters frailly against the front door, grabbing her wrist. His bony, quaking hand startles her; scarily flimsy, his clasp is almost intangible.

"_Please_," his voice has attenuated to a pitiful whisper, and his lips are quivering and sliding against one another, as he holds back his tears. "We . . . we can go on an adventure like the old times, right?"

His begging eyes are a leash, taking her prisoner, compressing the breath out of her, until she is inveigled to acquiesce. She looks over to Miss Miller, who has her back turned from them as she covers her face with her hands. There is an indicative nod from her, and Alice mimics the movement to Jeremiah.

"S-sure."

A flood of relief quells the intensity of his shuddering. He hobbles outside, but when she hooked her fingers on his arm, she is jostled aside. "I can _walk_," he stresses.

Alice does not argue, and instead, takes the bucket propped by his door. They travel together, stopping by each cabin along the way, distributing a portion of water to the sick and deprived. Jeremiah systematically wipes his forehead with his sleeve, the importunate heat boring into his splotchy skin. Often, he would halt and wheeze at the physical exercise. She deliberately reduces the velocity of her pace, so that he can advance evenly with her, but he deems it as belittlement, and laboriously pushes forward. Seeing as he contends so much against the beast within him makes her heart ache with woe. But, she rapidly corrects her expression to one of solemnness, as she acknowledges that he does not want to commiserated since there is no possibility that she could fully understand what he is going through.

The next house they come to, it is a tiny baby that is tormented with the beast. After giving the water, Alice is proceeding ahead, but stops when she realizes that Jeremiah is not accompanying her. She glances over her shoulder and perceives as Jeremiah stands inanimately, his lackluster eyes drilling into the baby. He reaches out, stagnantly, and pats his diminutive head, murmuring something to the baby's mother. Afterward, Jeremiah joins her, his state withdrawn as if he has assembled insuperable walls in circumference to his heart.

When they carried themselves around the corner, Jeremiah abruptly delivers a proclamation, "His name is Christopher. Christopher Daniels."

Alice turns to him curiously, and sees his abated stature and staunchly clamped fists. Tears collect by his nether eyelashes.

"I'll never forget his name. I'll never forget it."

They do not talk as they journey toward several more houses. The ill react differently to their allotment of water: some thank them exceedingly, grabbing onto their wrists and kissing their sordid hands in gratitude; some sob convulsively, spluttering as they imbibe; and a small amount simply stare at the water, not betraying their stationary, ensconced positions by the walls, not emitting a single wail of despondency, their countenances inured and grave—although they are intimidating, Alice strangely, peculiarly finds them the bravest of them all.

Commonly, everyone in the village temporarily terminates whatever they are doing, all operations fragmenting; Mary refrains from puffing out the laundry, Dederick puts away his tools, and Missus Howland desists from weeding out the profuse and galling plants by her front steps. All gazes switch to the North Path, the ill-fated, egregious passage to London.

A group of dismayed persons trudges their way to them, their shoulders hanging loosely, their spirits abolished. The wrinkles marring their cheeks, the depressed orbs roaming along their faces, yet processing nothing—it is all too much, that everyone cannot articulate a word at all. Alice notices as Miss Granger gasps in recognition and lets go of her broom, dashing to one individual from the group. By the dreary shake of their heads, the villagers can deduce that yet another group was turned back by the despicable officers, to no avail.

Each and every one feels it, their bodies and minds alike corroding with the doom of not being able to be liberated. There, before them, is their hope being barbarously slain, mashed, shattered. It echoes in their ears, the shrill laugh of the beast, as it relishes in enchaining them to abstract shackles.

_You can never leave the village_, it tells them. _You all belong to me_, its voice greedily trickles down their spines, fusing with their fear.

A woman screams. She caves in, sinking to the ground to smite it incessantly, witlessly. She thrashes around in the dirt, staining and vitiating her threadbare dress with the foul matter. Everyone vaguely identifies that she is Mary, but no one stoops down to impart support.

_Why?_

Because if one gets up, the other falls. Because everyone will ultimately crumple, that is their twisted, corrupt logic.

But other than her piercing, strident cry for rescue, there is nothing. No emission of panic. People are calm, so wrongly so. Torpidly, they pluck their gazes from the vanquished group and go back to what they were doing before the intermission. In a way, everyone has predicted this result.

"There is no point in this!" Dederick mutters to nobody in particular, upset, clanging his tools against one another. "It sure is obvious that ain't nobody gonna be able to get outta this goddamned village. We're all gonna die out, one by one. No one's gonna save us."

The silence he receives, it is their consentaneous agreement.

"It's those bloody _nobles_!" Jeremiah says harshly to Alice, reeling in her attention. "If only they would just give us a chance to get away from this hellhole!" He has become increasingly bitter ever since the day the beast has latched onto him; the effervescence has disintegrated long ago, like a moth passing through flames, its residue formed by blatant antagonism.

Alice can only manage a nod; indeed, the haughty aristocrats, from what she hears, are revolted by the sight of them, the filthy, and are chiefly averse to the idea of helping them out. Rumors are, if one is intimately associated with a noble or someone wealthy, one would acquire the sanction to move in with the said person. However, close to none of the villagers here know of anyone in the elite class. In fact, they are on opposite sides of a coin, diametrically contrary to one another. It is utterly futile to rely on them for assistance.

Soon enough, the group has broken apart, and individuals return to their respective cabins. Alice and Jeremiah finish dealing out the remainder of the water; they save a bit at the end for themselves before resigning from their duty.

Eventually, dusk dominates the sky, enveloping them with the dismal night riddled with twinkling stars. The intolerable heat has subsided once the sun was enslaved behind the leering moon, but the air is still humid and distressing. Having already informed their guardians that they will be out for the night, Alice prepares a fireplace in the midst of the road, with the twigs and branches Patty has provided. They both settle by there, upon logs Alice has arduously tugged over from the hilltop, not appreciative of the warmth but lured in by the brilliant light of the scintillating combustion.

The fire crackles with evil delight, exhibiting much liveliness. The village is lulled by the perennial chirping of the crickets, and the absolute stillness of the night, in exception to the intermittent wheezing succeeded by the hushed, mellifluous murmurs of consolation. Alice watches as the smoke mounts from the fire, encircling above them in a mild, temperate fashion. To her, the silence is like an omen; it is as though everyone has ceased resisting the beast, and is just waiting for their time.

Hope is clawing by the very edges after all, nearly void; what is left of it is only the prospect that one would survive the next day. Today's group that was declined was led by the tough, indefatigable Mister Gregory, whom is venerated by many. He is renowned for his unique charm, strong, unwavering presence, and pervasive influence. If an issue should spring up between villagers, he would solve it, unaided, with an unflagging toothy smile, merely by artful talk alone. If it was _him_ that went, then surely, certainly, the officers will be beguiled into letting them into the city—at least, that is what the villagers believed.

Their theory, in the end, is erroneous. They are _stuck_ here, in this division of calamity, forced to endure as their friends and family die before their eyes, with no way out. The home, that they have loved and grown up in, has become their cage.

"You 'member when we used to come here everyday, Al?" Jeremiah, on the spur of the moment, strikes up a conversation. He sadly jabs the ground with the branch. Alice imitates him, taking a branch and dully sketching a plain smiley face on the dirt, but the smile does not quite climb up to her eyes. Disenchanted, she flings the branch aside.

"'Course I r'member," Alice says, sighing, and then throws her back against the dirt, flopping her legs. The remote stars eagerly align themselves in her vision, and she supports her head with her arms. It is Jeremiah's turn to copy her, lying down and spreading his arms.

She is playfully nudged in the shin by his leg. She returns the prod lightly, and soon, they begin to knavishly kick each other, until he suddenly tenses in pain. She swiftly retracts her leg, and they rest there in silence.

Jeremiah sighs, peeking at the sky through his lashes, "Y'know, I'm gettin' real sick of all of this. Don't you want some kinda change?"

"You can start by cozyin' up to yer mum. I swear, Jere, she's just tryna be kind t'ya."

"I don't like it," he remarks scurvily, "I don't like how she goes on treatin' me nice now that I have this awful beast inside me. Before, she usually slapped me 'round, callin' me all sorts of stuff an' sayin' how much she doesn't want me."

"Aw, c'mon, Jere, ya know she don't mean that."

He snaps, "What do you know, Al? You got good ol' lovin' Patty with ya."

Alice frowns at his sneeringly pessimistic tone. "So what? Doesn't mean yer mum loves ya any less than Patty loves me. They just show their love differently."

Stubbornly, his lower lip juts out, and he refuses to face her direction, rolling to his side. "That's a load of rubbish, an' you know it."

"Goddammit, Jere, you've been a real ass lately—"

"Then, you try an' get this beast in ya!" Jeremiah unexpectedly shouts, sitting up and coughing. "You . . . you try an' 'ave this blasted disease in ya, eatin' ya every second of the day, knowin' that yer fate is goddamned sealed an' you ain't gettin' outta it! Knowin' that yer a goner so what's the point of _tryin_' anymore? Of tryin' to smile and tryin' to be nice, when you know yer gonna be gone an' the people yer smilin' an' being nice to are gonna move on without you! You try an' 'ave everyone lookin' at you like yer an odd, pitiful creature that needs help with every bloody little thing! Every bloody little thing, you can't do it yourself 'cause yer weak! You try an' watch from yer small window as other kids like you go out an' play an' run, while yer stuck in yer home, _dyin_'! You try an' 'ave that an' tell me how it feels! Tell _me_ how it feels!"

He angrily wipes his tears with the back of his hand, then with a choked cry, he falls back down on the ground. His body curves in a ball, as he hugs his knees to his chest to preserve the warmth. His muffled, deadened weeping tugs at her heartstrings, until she can forbear it no longer, and turns the other way.

She cannot say anything. Perhaps there is nothing to say, as Jeremiah is right, he has spoken it all.

Alice is not aware of how long it took, but Jeremiah's sobs degenerate to repressed sniffles, until he becomes taciturn once more. After a period of time, Jeremiah seems remorseful for lashing out on her, and steers the subject elsewhere, "Al; did you not hear of a gun?—but now we are talking of a gun, I'm gonna tell you a story. Oi, 'member Rusty Guts next door to me?"

"The one with a rib that goes by the ground?" Alice says, amused.

"Sure is! Heard that he broke his rib's rain napper, made some fimble-famble but it ain't foolin' no one. Now she's throwin' his sit-upons on the streets. He hasn't come home for _days_. Probably _soaked_ by now."

Alice chortles, "Stinks to be him! Bet by now he can't even see a hole in a ladder!"

"He was stalking her follow-me-lads all his life, now his rib's kicked him out he's got nowhere t'go. It was a _floorer_ for him. But, damn, his rib is as fizzin' as ever."

"She sure is a gem," Alice agrees, bobbing her head wisely.

They both laugh, but then Jeremiah sobers up, and asks her a queer question, "Oi, Al, you heard 'bout 'em, right? Those . . . nobles."

"Yes, the scuttlebutt 'bout 'em is everywhere. What 'bout 'em?"

"Bet you heard the whole kit and caboodle 'bout 'em, how they're blue at the mizzen."

"Sure did."

"What would you do, if ya see 'em?"

She scratches her nose. "Gosh, what does that matter?"

"I'm just curious! Know what I'd do? I swear, if only I can meet one, I'd show 'em my bunch of fives. I'd show 'em how much pain we hafta go through! I have the dash-fire fer that."

Alice laughs at his vocal self-praise of manliness, and sits up fervently, impelled to protract the joke. "If that were to happen, that'd be rich!" She dramatically jumps to her feet, and prances around the halo of fire with vivacity. He grins, getting up as well. "Get this in yer head: you go on to 'em, the dudes with the sweet barkers, tryna show 'im the boss in town. Then, yer gonna have a blinker, yer drumsticks gon' be sliced, they gon' give you a good anointin'."

"I'd punch 'im right in the smeller before he got the time to get his back up."

"Best you get yer best bib an' tucker 'cause yer goin' through the mill. That fellow's gonna put you in a earth bath!"

The last comment is a mistake, she understands, once he scowls. She has inadvertently connoted that he will be brought to a grave; compunction assaults the pit of her stomach for speaking so carelessly. Petulant with her own stupidity, she crosses her arms and furtively glances at him from the corner of her eye.

"C'mon, Jere, don't be a croaker. You know I don't mean that—"

Without warning, Jeremiah claps a hand over his mouth, and collapses to another strenuous coughing fit. Promptly, she is by his side, attempting to tranquilize his writhing self, as he gags. The retching sounds he produces tear viciously at her eardrums, inciting for goosebumps to ripple across her skin.

When Jeremiah pulls back his hand, however, he shrieks.

Smeared on his palm is the sanguine color of blood.

Jeremiah is shaking, shaking so much in terror. His eyes roll skyward until she can see the whites of them.

"I'm . . . goin' to die."

It is a whisper at first, a blooming realization, but then—

"I'm goin' to _die_!" he yells, his voice elevating to a howl, as he loses control of his own mind. "I'm goin' to die"—an injurious expulsion of air from his lungs erupts within moments that he strains himself—"This is _it_, the blasted final stage of the beast! Oh my Lord, I'm goin' to die!"

"Jere!" she exclaims, trying to grip onto his shoulders to steady him, but he shoves her aside, the summit of his lean elbow hitting the square of her chest. "Ow! Goddammit, Jere, calm—"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" He is succumbing, expeditiously, to lunacy. He looks petrified, benumbed with shock, as if he has witnessed an apparition. Seizing the locks to his hair, he begins to yank and pull rigorously at it, roughly extracting and rooting up a few filaments from his scalp. His knees give way to the ground. "Oh my Lord, please, _please_, hear me out . . . don't do this, don't do this."

Tears stream down his cheeks, and Alice has never perceived him so prevailed over before. Truthfully, it frightens her seeing how subjugated her dear friend is to the beast—the bloodthirsty, brutal glutton. A powerful flow of ire, then, billows through her chest, crashing into her lungs and cresting by her heart. Jeremiah does not _deserve_ this, it is unfair. It is horrid, and she curses the malevolent beast, the inability of this world to counterattack its might, and the ubiquitous Supreme Being reigning over the universe, who observes this monstrosity yet chooses to do _nothing_ about it.

Why is it _Jeremiah_? Why does it have to be him?

His palms dig into the dirt, clenching it with such vigor that the excess starts to pour out and seepage down his skin by the natural splitting of his fingers. Drops of liquid descend from his jaw to the ground, creating infinitesimal puddles.

"I'm goin' to die . . . I'm goin' to die . . . I guess . . . I'm really gonna die."

Toward the end of his statement lies a clandestine asserting ring to his tone, as if he is beginning to _accept_ his death.

His back is to her for an incalculably lengthy interval.

"If I'm gonna die . . . if I must die . . . then I'm gonna do it," Jeremiah states, brusquely, glancing at the fire. "If one of 'em hateful _nobles_ steps foot into our home, I'm gon' make him look up an' down real good at the pain we're goin' through." He seems enraptured by the fire, it appropriating the hold of his stare tenaciously. In the abyss of his charcoal eyes, that are glossed over with red, dance the tall flames of the fire.

And that alone, his sudden, inexplicable resolve, scares her more than anything else.

* * *

"Get up! Move it!" an authoritative voice demands.

Imperiously jerked away from her sphere of dreams, Alice flinches when the sunlight invades into the slits of her eyelids.

"Get up, you vile mutts!"

Her eyes snap open, and what she sees sends her spiraling in bewilderment: a carriage.

* * *

Marquis Wright was incensed, goaded to madness, when he has received the news that the main road is temporarily blocked due to the unconscionable villagers from Rier swamping by it. How inconvenient it is for _him_, one of the most important men in Great Britain. Why is it that _he_ is one coerced to find another path, so that he can furnish an accommodation to those profitless, defiled, and squalid villagers that simply shape their toenails for a living? How insouciant they must be, free from the trouble of business. Unrefined, uncouth, astonishingly lacking in propriety and the basics of etiquette. They garb themselves in the scantiest and most inferior of clothes, and they reek of an abominable stench that must have been derived from spending blithesome days knee-up in dirt.

While he, is a debonair gentleman; he is the most elegant of them all, one neatly structured with courtesy and conformity. He busies himself with toilsome work, which entails of conducting indispensable meetings, negotiations, and transactions so that all affairs in Great Britain run smoothly. Merely offending a foreign entrepreneur can lead to a severe downfall in the economy, as they will relinquish all investments. That is why he has to efficiently appease—smile warmly, firmly grip the hand, eloquently make proposals and introduce reconciliations—all of his clients and collaborators. It is an exceptionally enervating; how many hours did he expend scrunched up in his study to master the rhetoric?

As for these detestable villagers, all they have to be concerned about is sowing seeds—brought about by a flicker of the fingers—and watering plants—simply slant the can and dispense—in a timely manner. Then afterward, they just chase each other around moronically, waiting for the crops to develop; reaping them when they are ripe is self-explanatory, an elementary procedure. How difficult can that be? Furthermore, their conversations are the farthest thing from sophistication; he is definite that all it consists of are primitive, rudimentary sounds that require little to no intelligence: "_Hur de dur dur_." Yes, that seems about right.

Needless to say, he was not happy with discovering a shortcut through another _village_.

"We should really demolish these villages. Get more breathing air for the city," Marquis Wright remarks to his companion, Sir Hughes, while they are in the carriage. He peeps out the window, out of inquisitiveness, and immediately regrets it; the entirety of his view is intruded upon by vast yards of empty, desolate land. "Tch, wasteland."

The biddable Sir Hughes lights the cigar tottering in Wright's outstretched hand.

"Kyle!" Wright barks to the coach driver. "Go faster, will you? Run over those damned villagers, if that's what it takes to make us get out of this place faster."

Kyle whips the horses, and they instantly stampede forward.

The air is getting dirtier, smothered by impurity, and his lungs are having a hard time adjusting to it; his windows are smirched, tinted with black, by the repellent dust that wallows in the air. Derelict houses, barely erected upright, are concentrated into a blur, as the carriage picks up the pace.

"Stupid villagers," Wright mutters, grinding his teeth into the cigar as if to discipline it into softness. "It is apparent that they don't even know what a straight vertical line is."

All of a sudden, the carriage shudders into an impetuous halt, its wheels screeching at the friction. The force hinders the equilibrium of both Wright and Hughes, and they are hurled from their seats.

"_Kyle_! You unstable bastard—"

"S-sir! There are a couple of children lying up ahead."

"_What_?"

Wright and Hughes peer out from the window to see that, indeed, there are two kids sleeping so serenely, so blissfully, as if they are in heaven. They even have a fireplace set up, though the fire has burnt out long ago. The sight of their insensibility to him, who has consequential matters to attend to, is utterly aggravating, and passionate anger skitters along his nerves.

"Get up! Move it!" he bellows from the innermost of his carriage. They stir a bit, but it is not enough to arouse them. Irate, he perseveres, "Get up, you vile mutts!"

Finally, the kids jolt to a full wake. Instead of clambering out of his way like they should—if they were properly instructed and well-bred, that is—they distinctly gape at the carriage, their jaws swinging open. How culpably asinine they are, do they not comprehend unambiguous commands? Not to mention, tarnished with soil, they are also very ugly.

His arrival appears to have enlivened the rest of the villagers as well, as they creep out of their houses to gawk vacuously at him; their minds must have drawn to a thorough blank. Have they no shame? Frankly, the more time he devotes to this obtuse bunch, the more it besets him with discomfort. Fortunately for them, a plump woman comes scurrying out of the crowd to drag the two children out of the carriage's line of course; had they taken longer, his wrath would have augmented to the degree that he is bereaved of levelheadedness.

"You see that kid?" Sir Hughes points to the male one of the two children. "Doesn't he seem strange to you?"

Wright involuntarily shivers when his eyes landed on the boy. He is immoderately skinny, his bones weighing out on his dry skin that is disfigured by purple marks; the manner in which they manifest is much too aberrant to write it off as ordinary bruises. But what fills him with apprehension is the way the boy is staring at _him_. His tenebrous orbs are unremittingly trained upon them, insanity slinking behind them; his lips are twitching eccentrically, as if he is about to smile.

But why?

"Never mind that!" Wright says, uneasily. "Kyle, you had best get going before I feed your head to these villagers!"

"Yes, sir—"

Wright yelps when his door is ripped open, and the _boy_ is right next to him, his expression overtly zealous. Wright can only sputter saliva ebulliently, bubbling up with intense agitation. His gaze races to and fro from the position the boy has forsaken, to the boy himself, who is adjacent to him. How did he move so fast?

"Yer a noble, ain't ya?" the boy questions. "I can tell by yer rich clothin'. Ya know, I've been waitin' fer ya to come." He bends his head forward, ducking inside the carriage in a sinister, dreadful fashion, his deranged eyes distended and unblinking. Wright has intuitively scooted against Hughes, squishing him against the other side of the carriage.

The boy laughs like a hen, "Ya hoo! Seein' ya get all pissy in yer underpants is worth it, all right!"

Abruptly, he spasms, crooking his body in semblance to a slithering snake, and then _vomits_. Uncontrollably, he ejects the contents of his stomach through his mouth, splattering the nauseating substance all over his seat and tainting the air with its pungent stench that compels his nostrils to contract.

Never has Wright been blinded by such formidable fury before.

Induced by ungovernable rancor, Wright ignores him as the humiliated boy mumbles his apology, and snatches the cane from Sir Hughes' possession. He pokes the tip against the ailing boy's forehead inimically, ushering him to fall outside on his bottom. Wright climbs out of his carriage after him, and hostilely grapples him by the scruff of his neck, neglecting the fact that he feels anomalously light for an adolescent his age. The boy whimpers, kicking his legs weakly in protest.

"Do you know what you just did, you insolent pest!?" Wright screams into his face. "H—how dare you do that to a _noble_?"

He sees as the girl from earlier starts to run to the boy's aid, but he dictatorially thrusts the cane in her direction. "You, stay out of it! I'm going to teach you _disgusting_ villagers a lesson!"

With a tumultuous shove, the boy is propelled to the ground, his chin grating against the dirt. Wright raises the cane, ostentatiously, jabbing it toward the sky, and all of the villagers behold it, spellbind. The intractable rage fuels the adrenaline pumping in his veins, his heart charging against his rib cage. The cane, then, rains down on the cowering boy's back.

Horror flares before him, in the eyes of the witnesses, but he does not regard it. He does not care. He is angry, and he must punish.

It pummels down on the boy's back again. For the second time. Then, the third. Fourth. Fifth.

He does not care.

He does not permit for even a cry of anguish to reach his ears, for he has shut out everything else to focus on this very thing. He does not process anything, suspended in a stupor, as he beats the boy repeatedly. The repulsive regurgitation, the unbecoming temerity of this boy, he was audacious enough to defy a noble, to ridicule him. This act is a glaring deviation from convention and order; villagers are not supposed to look down on nobles, that is an unwonted inversion—it is putative that, invariably, even if their interactions are infrequent, nobles are superior.

He proceeds, senselessly, to strike the boy. He executes the detrimental task in such an imperative manner that the villagers cannot fend from the paralysis and succor the victim.

It is when he heard a loud, audible, blatant crack, that he stops.

The boy has ceased moving.

In this moment, his breath has been abridged.

In this moment, all of the villagers can only gaze fixedly at the boy on the ground.

In this moment, it all comes crashing down about him, as he feels the copious blood drenching his boots. The boy's skull lies ghastly apart in his vision, the breach sneering at him evocatively, casting him into disarray. So very deathlike, so very hideous, that his mind begins to delicately touch upon the thought that perhaps, just perhaps the boy _is_—

Impossible.

Wright has a flawless reputation.

Yes, it is extremely impossible.

The bloodstained cane falls to the ground, he lets it slip easily from the grasp of his fingers.

A murderer? _Him_?

Unheard of. Absurd.

Yes, very illogical.

He plainly re-enters his carriage, inattentive to the vomit. He just sits there, relaxing against his seat. Sir Hughes is ogling at him intently, a peculiar tug pulling at his lips, but Wright pays him no heed.

"Well, go now, Kyle," Wright orders, his tone much too flat, his face much too impassive.

But then, there ignites the discordant screams, the indignant cries and roars. Chaos assail the village; they aggressively lunge at the carriage, grazing by his door, especially the girl who looks at him with unbelievable hatred and spite. The obstreperous lump of people pound against his carriage, tilting it to and fro, demanding compensation. The shouts coalesce into a clamorous bawl that engulfs his eardrums whole. They shriek that they will never forgive him, that his fault will never be exonerated, that his sins can never be repented.

"You've certainly made a lot of enemies," Hughes notes coolly, admiring his fingernails.

"You, _shut_ your—"

Incidentally glancing past Hughes, through his window, he perceives a bizarre individual that stands afar from the rest of the villagers. And yet, he is staring precisely at Wright, undaunted and brazen. The smile he is wearing, however, is so incompatible with the overwrought atmosphere that Wright actually struggles to catch his breath.

"Mur-der-er," the odd boy enunciates, mouthing the damnable word emphatically, the smile evolving into a wolfish grin.

Before Wright could carry out a closer inspection of the boy, the carriage hurtles forward, administered by Kyle.

He does not know why he feels terrified to this extravagant extent.

If asked to give an account of the boy, Wright would only be capable of bestowing an indeterminable one.

Blond hair and blue eyes, that is sole thing that Wright can say.

* * *

**A/N: I'll leave this to speculation. Halfway through the chapter, I missed writing through Ciel's perspective.**

**Definitions for the slang words:**

**Did you not hear of a gun? – Opening to a story**

**Rusty Guts – Tough guy**

**Rib – A wife**

**Goes by the ground – Short**

**Rain napper – Umbrella**

**Fimble-famble – Lame excuse**

**Sit-upons – Trousers**

**Soaked – Drunk**

**Can't even see a hole in a ladder – Exaggeration for when someone is extremely drunk**

**Follow-me-lads – Curls hanging over a lady's shoulder**

**Floorer – A blow sufficiently strong to knock a man over, or to bring him to the ground. Often used in reference to sudden and unpleasant news.**

**Fizzing – Stunning**

**Scuttlebutt – Rumors**

**Whole kit and caboodle – Everything**

**Blue at the mizzen – Haughty**

**Bunch of fives – The fist**

**Dash-fire – Vigor**

**Rich – Funny**

**Dude – Elegant man**

**Barker – Pistol**

**Boss – The best (we all should know this)**

**Blinker – A blackened eye**

**Drumsticks – Legs**

**Anointing – Beating**

**Smeller – The nose**

**Get his back up – Get angry**

**Best bib and tucker – Best clothes**

**Going through the mill – Getting the full experience**

**Earth bath – A grave**

**Croaker – A pessimist**


	6. Quill of the Inferior

**Compulsion - Chapter 6: _Quill of the Inferior__  
_**

**Sorry, all, for the terrible delay. This is just a build-up chapter for the next, unfortunately, but it's necessary otherwise I won't be able to update at all. (I have much stories to read and review, but school is getting in my way and it's been ridiculously burdensome.)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.**

* * *

_Alois Trancy_.

Those were the words that his mind has stumbled onto, that have emerged strongly, prominently, upon hearing Marquis Wright's story. The boy present at the village of Bardsley, he has blond hair and blue eyes—who else could it be other than Alois Trancy?

If it was him—regardless of the notion that there is no plausible way it could have been anyone _but_ him, as the boy Wright narrated about was highly idiosyncratic—what could he have desired there? Was this where he had spent the past year dwelling at? Was this what he had wanted to tell him about during the winter ball? Regrettably, Ciel had not the provident judgment to inquire, back then. If only he could be educated on Alois' side of the story . . .

Well, it is not an impossibility.

Yes, all it should take are dabble of ink, a quill to write with, and a piece of parchment. He has listed the expedient requisites. But yet, his hand quivers while holding the quill over the paper. Why is that so? What can excuse the involuntary oscillation? Perhaps, it is because he is _nervous_? But, for what reason? Is he anxious with earnestly conversing with the boy after the unpardonably lengthy period of cessation between both parties? He has never been apprehensive about talking to Alois to this extent before; it is all a conjecture, yet again, but maybe he is acutely uneasy because Alois' temperament has advanced in such a flummoxing manner, that it discards Ciel behind in the dust.

What if all he speaks is childish nonsense compared to Alois' milled, impeccable style? Previously, he had no cause to feel _inferior_ to Alois; it was always Alois who looked ludicrous beside him, the rational, sagacious Ciel. Alois was recalcitrant, absolutely difficult to manage; he was so rebellious, that even the Queen was depleted after chatting with him, and her loyal butlers were provoked to all but draw their swords. But, now, it is an entirely divergent matter. While Ciel was mourning the loss of his esteemed position, Alois ambitiously embarked on a voyage to explore, to attain knowledge and to aggrandize his experience. What he brought back with him, that is, his transformed, ameliorated disposition, overwhelmed Ciel, who had done _nothing _and faded from the light.

How _frustrating_ it is, that his teeth collapse against his nether lip and his fingers tighten around the flimsy quill. He is not even fit to be called Alois' rival anymore. Alois has actually accomplished it, he has surpassed Ciel, overshadowing him to oblivion. While Ciel's balance of mind was dismantled and torn apart to fragments, Alois was calm, tranquil, and placid, all the traits worthy of admiration. Since when was Ciel so ignominiously weak that he had to depend on _Alois_ of all people for assistance?

His grip loosens, mirroring his disintegrating confidence, and the quill flutters slightly as it frees itself and reposes on the surface of his desk.

He will never forget the embarrassment he had felt, the intense yearning to dive into the ground and to be invisible, so much that it burns his face and grapples at his heart whenever he ruminates about it. It is awful, it is humiliating, being saved by a rival he had considered substandard. What is he supposed to see himself as, now that he is transcended?

The fists trembling with fervor aimed toward himself are exposed to view before him.

But, still, Ciel _must_ pick up his quill. He must draft the invitation. He must get to the bottom of this case. He does not know how Alois can help in this situation, or if he is even a significant figure, but the information he can bestow may be auxiliary to his overall goal. Whatever relations there are, no matter how slim, are worthwhile to pursue. That is a knowledge he has acquired after years of "detective" work.

_I _must_ do it._

_But_—

His quill remains untouched; it rests peacefully. There is an intimidating emanation securely surrounding the object, deterring his fingers from going near it. His well-trimmed nails, a token of his luxurious lifestyle, curl inwards, grazing the plane of the desk; although they are sitting only centimeters away from the quill, the much too minor distance is unlikely to be overcome.

_I can't._

His sharp teeth dip even further into his lip, prompting a minute globule of blood to emerge; it tinges the tip of his tongue with a peculiar, metallic taste.

Again, it is his damned pride that causes him to shamefully demur.

When will he learn to swallow it, to accept its detached condition? Perhaps, he has grown much too unduly habituated to haughtily pointing his nose up to the clouds and adamantly denying any form of assistance. Well, he cannot help but choose to be independent; his direful past, he had to endure it all by himself. He had to rely solely on himself and his own willpower in order to rise.

It is definitely commendable, if one were to gallantly declare that he will abandon his dignity, when it is already so crushed. But, the second thoughts sibilantly bustling about in a treacherous hiss in his head stand as quite a foe; what if he does do it, but then mortifies himself? Why is he constantly obliged to shoulder humiliation after humiliation?

The quill does not move.

He cannot do it, after all.

* * *

On the umpteenth time that the rancorous Ciel shouts, "I cannot do it . . . no, I must! Argh, but I cannot!" Soma whimsically opts to investigate. The prince, though relatively immature and guileless, is garbed in sumptuous, expensive clothing; his sherwani was manufactured from the finest of silk imported from China, and the quality of his churidars is unparalleled. Having been made very disturbed by Ciel's uncharacteristic and contradictory self-conversation, Soma barges into his study, with Agni, his ever loyal butler, close at his heels.

The sight is, surely, matchless: Ciel has his head bowed low, almost remorsefully, his network of navy-blue forelocks nearly coalescing with the desk; his hands are thrust into fists that firmly grip his hair; mushed, crumpled slips of paper rolled up into balls are untidily dispersed along the floor, their positions a consequence to his careless flinging about.

Inquisitively, Agni stoops down and picks up one of the scattered units. He unfolds the paper, smoothing out its wrinkles with such gentleness that one may assume that he holds it with much reverence. Its contents are then disclosed to him; the inky words are seemingly awry and distorted due to the permanent creases actuated by Ciel's immoderate alteration of the paper.

_Dear Alois Trancy_—

Ciel, evidently, has judged the greeting inadequate, and he has quickly skipped over it:

_Salutations Rightful Head of Trancy_—

Toward the left margin of the paper, Ciel has hastily scribbled his reason for deeming this inept as well: _Overly formal and methodical. As lifeless as a scarecrow. Exaggerated sentiment, how revolting._

_To Whom It May Concern_—

Repeating the practice of earlier, he has deprecated it with a spiteful comment: _I believe I am only addressing Trancy, am I not? Preposterous._

_Dear Earl of Trancy,_

Apparently, he has found this acknowledgement suitable enough for it to be allowed to stay.

_I wonder if you are doing well. __Indeed, it has been quite a while_—

He, again, has decided to start over. On the side lies a rather derogatory remark: _How ridiculously stiff and frivolous the statement. Whatever posh impression I was questing for, it definitely has more effect in regards to inducing me to hurl._

_I do not wish to beat around the bush. I would like to address_—

A heavy, uneven line is hostilely dealt across the said words, and he has given an account for the intriguing action: _Now I am completely neglecting my propriety, while he upholds his to the highest tier. Is this not why I feel so disgustingly subordinate?_

At this point, Ciel has filled three quarters of the letter with furious crossings, incoherent and rushed scrawls, and extravagant declamations, of which are composed of invective diatribes and sharp criticisms aimed at himself. Ciel's discrepancies quietly instill worry in the stout hearts of Agni and Soma.

"Ciel!" Soma calls loudly, intrusively perching his palms on the surface of Ciel's desk. He bends forward a bit, to curiously squint into Ciel's brilliantly sapphire eyes. "Do tell me, your best friend, why you are beating yourself up to and fro! It just makes me anxious for you, Ciel."

The tiny boy (well, to Agni's standards, he is but a wee peck) behind the desk is palpably exasperated by the unwarranted interruption; his brow plunges profoundly, as if a massive and cumbersome weight has just been dropped upon it, and the corner of his lips twitch to exhibit his boiling anger. Fermenting with agitation, he scrunches another piece of paper in his hands, and glowers unblinkingly at Soma.

"You are an annoyance," the Earl of Phantomhive seethes, unpleasantly. "Leave before I have Sebastian usher you to the exit. With _force_, if necessary_— _You! Give that back!"

While Ciel was griping and complaining, Soma has made use of the situation to snatch the paper from his possession. Deliberately ignoring the younger boy's demands that he returns it, he merely pushes the upset boy back down on his seat by pressing on his shoulder. He then tosses the stolen item to Agni, who is waiting expectantly. "Read it, Agni," Soma lightheartedly orders, flashing a mischievous grin at Ciel while still constraining him to sit. The poor boy does not have much bodily strength to boast of, or to utilize competently for that matter, and cannot properly oppose Soma.

Agni, on command, begins to read off the abused paper:

_Dear Earl of Trancy,_

_Good day. There is something gravelly important I would like to discuss with you. It would be wonderful if you can_—

"Uh, Agni?" Soma urges, cocking an eyebrow questionably, and he repeatedly taps his foot against the floor to exercise his impatience. "Go on."

"It ends here, sir," his butler informs.

"Oh."

Soma whirls around to Ciel, and plasters a bright, ebullient smile on his lips to rival the latter's deepening scowl in earnestness. There is latent sympathy stringed in Soma's demeanor as he warmly claps his hands on Ciel's shoulders, that does not go undetected by any of them. Ciel is infamous for equipping himself with a contentious and quarrelsome behavior when it comes to pity, and he grants honor and verity to the theory by belligerently stating, "Out of my sight, you two. This is your final warning."

The prince speaks very soothingly, despite knowing fully well that consolation is something Ciel detests on a regular basis (alas, the prince is an exceedingly obstinate being who will resolutely seek out the tender side to everyone albeit the prospectively unfavorable outcome), "Ciel, you don't have to do this to yourself. It makes no sense for you to stress about this person!"

Ciel petulantly propels his quill aside with a negligent flick of his wrist, at the haphazard recognition that he still has the despicable thing in his grasp. Folding his arms in a fashion he hopes is intolerably supercilious in order to devalue the confidence of the other individual, he reclines against his leather seat with an irritated sigh, "You wouldn't understand."

Soma scratches his head in frustration, and then pulls up a chair across from Ciel. Unsatisfied with Ciel's sullen and brooding expression, he energetically proposes, while pumping his arms with fiery enthusiasm, "I know what will get your mind off this! Let's play a name game! Finnian was playing it earlier, and I couldn't help but overhear it! It's a lot of fun; Agni and I have tried it out before." In response, Agni smiles and nods, and Soma eagerly proceeds to the instructions, "Basically, you take any two names, and create words out of the letters of both of them, within a thirty-second time limit. For instance, 'Soma' and 'Ciel.' Quick, Agni, think of a word using the letters of those names!"

"Hm . . . 'coma'?"

"Excellent! Now it's your turn, Ciel! Hurry!"

"Absurd," Ciel mutters, offhandedly inspecting the blots on his porcelain inkwell. "You both can enjoy this game _outside_. Leave. I have a letter to write."

Agni, as usual, is the first to notice the severe reduction of ardent light in Soma's hazel eyes as well as his dissipating smile. His prince frowns confusedly, as if endeavoring to solve a complicated mathematical equation, and he sulks against his seat with shoulder blades diminishing in rigidity and falling to a sluggish, spiritless condition.

"Why is it always . . ."

Initially, it appears as a tentative and experimental whisper, as though Soma is cautiously ascertaining his right to articulate his opinion; once he is spared of stern reproof, however, his innate tendency to vociferously exclaim his discontentment soon prevails as a dominant dictator of his conduct. He physically attempts to restrain his bitter disappointment, his fingers entwining around the arms of his chair.

"Why is it always Alois Trancy?" the dejected prince asks, affected by a considerable level of sadness that causes even Ciel to retreat from his preoccupation to focus. Agni, naturally, turns to his master, an extension of his exceptional concern for him. "Why does he always win without even exerting the slightest of effort at obtaining your friendship? I cannot comprehend this madness! He was gone for the past year, and although you haven't spoken of his name, I can read it trembling in your eyes! Why is that? Aren't _we_ friends? Why do you gaze at me with little to _no_ importance, when it was I that stuck by your side? What's more, now that he's back, you've been enslaving yourself over writing a letter for him. Why the hesitation, Ciel? This is unlike you! If he had wished to meet up with you, he would have gone out of his way to do so already. You told me yourself, haven't you?" The volume of his voice steadily increases until he is vehemently enunciating each and every word, "You told me not to cling to the past! You advised me to let go of the persons that no longer belong to me! And, I've listened to you. Now, it is the time for you to heed your own word, Ciel. The way you're acting at the moment is the complete contrary to the best friend that I know of!"

The Earl of Phantomhive is astonished and conscience-smitten—shaken, even, as he is unequivocally appalled with being reprimanded by the very one he has had low estimation of. Puerile, infantile, foolish, he has used all of those words to succinctly describe Soma; and yet, here he is, being harshly rebuked by him. Again, the abhorrent irony: those he has belittled are expeditiously surmounting him; perhaps, his days of glory were numbered long ago. It is such a depressing notion that he has no choice but to reserve himself for personal defense.

"Ludicrous. I'm not friends with either of you, and I'm not enslaving myself. Now, leave."

Indeed, all that he is currently capable of producing are denials. How reprehensible for an earl of a distinguished house.

Without difficulty, Soma disinters Ciel's uneasiness, by keenly deciphering the nuances in his friend's visage that struggles desperately to be blank and impassive. "You _know_ I'm right, Ciel! Sometimes you choose to deceive yourself. That is when I step in to offer you eyes that reflect a different perspective!"

"Leave."

"I will not, until you accept my words as truth."

"That is not happening anytime soon, unfortunately."

"Ciel, don't be stubborn!"

"Leave at once."

"No!"

They share between them a sweltering, resentful glare, which fails to dismay either of them. When Ciel suddenly resigns against his seat, Soma is raring to rejoice in what seems like his surrender, but Ciel then utters the name that he is aware will thoroughly discourage Soma's relentless pursuits:

"Sebastian."

* * *

**Near the Port of London, River Thames**

While soaking up the calming breeze of the cool night, Lau looks toward his beautiful and everlasting companion that snuggles up against him to preserve warmth. His wistful gaze wanders aimlessly to the sky, and he sighs, "Things have been quite incongruous lately, haven't they, Ran-Mao? The chain of murders. There's even a hysterical woman roaming the streets and claiming that her husband has been missing. From what I heard, a deadly disease may be ravaging the villages in the countryside, too. I wonder when things will start to settle. . . . Ah, here comes our guest."

Viscount Neville Kynaston is a shady, nervous type of man, with a complexion so loathsomely pale it is on par with a specter's. A cylinder hat is—incessantly, as it would seem—atop his head to cast sufficient obscurity upon his face; the expedient shadows are not enough to conceal his identity, however, but perhaps the darkness, albeit how scanty, is a makeshift form of privacy and a comfort all on its own. Relatively tall but terribly lean, his physical frame is attired from head to toes with a brown trench coat of an excessive, tiresome length. He moves promptly, replete with purpose, but he would intermittently fling wary, distrustful glances behind his shoulder as he scurries to afford distance between him and whatever is kindling his paranoia.

Lau takes two steps forward, and widens the breadth of his smile into a cheerful grin. Kynaston, notwithstanding, does not think of the vivacity with much goodwill; he narrows his eyes suspiciously and provides a concrete, tangible space between the both of them when he comes to a halt. He even expends a moment to ogle in a condemnatory way at Ran-Mao, who is clinging to Lau rather pertinaciously.

"Good evening, Mister Lau."

An impetuous handshake.

"I hope you're feeling better, Viscount Kynaston," the Chinese man politely says, although truthfully, the man's pathetic health would never be an object of worry to him. "I heard you've recently caught a cold."

"Ah, yes . . ." his raspy voice trails off, as his eyes dart about Lau's countenance dubiously. Lau has to withstand the forthcoming laughter throbbing in the pit of his chest to signal of its birth; it would be inappropriate to snicker, despite his strong urge to display derision at the other man's farcical behavior. Will Kynaston be skeptical with his every word? Who has not ever gained knowledge of Kynaston's fluctuating constitution? It frequently becomes a popular topic to poke fun of in London. One day, he would be hale and robust, and the other day he would have deteriorated to a frail, sickly creature. This day is simply not his day to shine.

Kynaston then gestures toward the silver railing, which barricades the streets from the port, and they go to stand by it. Peering out at the mighty waves of the ocean ambushing the shore, made tenebrous by the night, he lets his grating voice—is it conceivable for someone's intonations to sound similar to creaks and scratches?—slip out from his barely opened mouth, "I'm going to go ahead and make the assumption that you have heard of the Noble Killer."

"Yes. Weird name he's got there. It almost has an euphemistic feel to it. So, we're just going to make small talk? Is this why you called me out?"

Solemnly, the viscount shakes his head. "Not quite, I'm afraid. You see, I had wanted to talk to a professional in the business, which would be you, the head of the Kon Ron trading company."

Lau prods Ran-Mao's cheeks with his fingers, his mind wandering off to Ciel, whose precise and punctilious speech never fails to grant him a headache, "Please, no formalities. Call me Lau."

"Indeed, I thank you for the offer, but I am more comfortable with calling you Mister Lau. As I was saying, it is you who is in charge of the imports and exports here, correct?"

"I own a branch of the trade, if that's what you're referring to."

"Yes, yes," Kynaston affirms. "Well, I am going to be exporting certain . . . goods to India, and I would like to hire you to assist me on the ship transaction. You see, the goods I am conveying . . . they are extremely difficult to obtain, and I do not want to lose them, or my life for that matter, during the journey. You are familiar with this business, so you should understand . . ." He whispers the crucial detail into Lau's ear.

Surprised, Lau exclaims, "Gunpowder? You're smuggling gunpowder to India?"

Kynaston plainly shrugs. "Business is business. I have stocks of them all piling at my ship. I'm sure you understand . . ."

Lau abandons his amazement, and replaces it with smugness. Of course he can relate; in fact, he himself has committed such a culpable crime a myriad of times before! Sail where the money goes, that is an aphorism of the black market. "I have qualification on contraband, yes. So what exactly do you need my help in?"

"Quite frankly, I am hiring you to be my bodyguard. I am a paranoid man. Nothing is allowed to go wrong in this pivotal transaction, and I'm not willing to take risks. I know of your skill in trade and deception, but most importantly, your reliable ability to rid yourself of any 'troublemakers' that cross paths with you. Mister Lau, protect my goods and I from harm. Protect me from the Noble Killer."

Is now the time to laugh? He is not certain. But, he laughs anyway, enjoying Kynaston's flagrant confusion unfurling like a well-coordinated stage play before him.

"That sounds interesting, Viscount Kynaston. Why not?"

The man nods, coughs a few times, and then spins on his heel to face the direction he came from. "Wonderful. I will see you in two days' time, at four in the morning."

And with that, Viscount Neville Kynaston departs, leaving behind a blithe and jaunty Lau, who internally flutters with anticipation. He fondly pinches Ran-Mao's cheeks.

"You hear that, Ran-Mao? You just may be able to test out your new clubs pretty soon. There's finally a chance to chat with this Noble Killer, if he chooses to come. I've been waiting for this. I wonder what he's like . . ."

* * *

**Phantomhive Manor**

Ciel busies himself with plucking out old and expired documents and letters from his immense pile of paperwork. Sebastian, on the other hand, is assigned the duty of getting rid of the material Ciel no longer needs. They toil tacitly and meticulously for several minutes, before Ciel shatters the silence, "What were they doing after you removed them from my study? The idiotic prince and his butler, I mean."

"Hm, they've returned to your townhouse in London. Prince Soma told me to tell you that it is a shame he is mad at you at the moment, for he would have personally gone to bid you farewell."

"I see." A flat, insipid reply. In his flagging constitution, he can barely retain much liveliness or vitality to contrive of a better response. Alois Trancy has expropriated him of any sort of vigor, as just contemplating about the inscrutable person is wearying him to the bone. Nevertheless, what is he supposed to say to Soma anyway? After investing in some constructive meditation, from his precious time alone in his study, he reaches the conclusion that perhaps earlier he has been a bit too unreasonable; he has his testy and irascible deportment to blame.

_Ah, well. The idiotic prince will forget about it all in due time._

And with that, Ciel arbitrarily brings closure to the subject.

"Young Master," Sebastian murmurs, pitching the unemployable files in the trash bin for a later disposal, "is your letter for Alois Trancy finished yet?"

"Never mind about that," Ciel dodges the topic a little too swiftly that the shrewd butler quirks an eyebrow, and he falls back on a separate one, "I want to discuss about the happenings at the winter ball. We shall review the information we have gathered."

"Indeed," his butler agrees, "Sir Hughes' death marks the seventh murder of an aristocrat by the killer. The killer is circumspect, adroit, and highly skilled, enough to evade me. He will not be an easy target."

Ciel flips through his papers. "Furthermore, his pattern of attacking is much too random, but we can be assured that he favors the gun as his primary weapon. Three bullet holes . . . any significant meaning to you?"

"Perhaps just an assertion that the target will be dead?"

"Credible speculation. That'll pass for the meantime. I want to address the seventh murder, in particular. It seems a bit unique compared to the others." Ciel raises his index and middle finger. "Two factors that immediately come off as strange to me. The first is that the killer _must_ be among those at the winter ball, since you were guarding the premises of the mansion . . . and yet, he manages to exit so inconceivably fast after carrying out the murder that it is almost unrealistic . . . unless, of course, you _allowed_ him to."

Ciel's dark and somber intonations obviously humor his butler into cracking a faint, cynical smile. "Please do not accuse me of such a thing, Young Master. I am loyal to your orders."

"Very well," the Earl of Phantomhive relinquishes the rather unfounded claim that serves more as an mollification of his contingent impulses to assess his much too enigmatic butler. "Moving on to the second factor. It is that note left in Sir Hughes' breast pocket. It holds the most mystery of all."

Sebastian dutifully hands him a document that has been surreptitiously tucked in a pocket of his tailcoat. "Here is an economic report written by Sir Hughes that I have retrieved from his office, as requested. After crosschecking this and the note, it is made apparent that the handwriting is not the same."

"Yes, this is much too sloppy," Ciel proclaims with a disapproving grimace, after surveying the file with little interest. "Ah, well, I never expected it to be Sir Hughes to print his own name himself. I just wanted verification. Now that I have it, we are certain that it _has_ to be someone else, no objections."

"As you have also ordered, I infiltrated the Scotland Yard administration center, and I scrutinized the note very closely. I have made a relatively small, possibly worthless, observation."

Ciel wordlessly signals his consent with an idle wave of his papers, and Sebastian continues, "Well, the piece of paper was creased in an extremely accurate manner, denoting that whoever has torn out that part of the paper from the whole had substantial time in his hands. However, the name appearing on the note was written rather hastily; granted, the handwriting still is neat and trim, but the remiss loops indicate a hurried pace. Moreover, I hope you have not failed to notice a splotch near his name; there was a drop on the piece of paper itself that varied in texture from the rest, signifying that the paper has expanded to some degree. And due to what? A drop of water. A salty drop, if I may add—my senses tell me that much—which makes me hypothesize that it was perspiration."

The Earl of Phantomhive is largely unimpressed. ". . . And? There are countless of circumstances that could have produced those results. Such as, the killer was dawdling with the paper, until he realized he was pressed for time, so he hurried to write the name. Perhaps, he was near a fireplace, and he sweated. It—"

"True," Sebastian says, his smirk evermore widening, "this may just be a worthless observation, as I have stated before. But now, I ask you, Young Master . . . why are you so certain it is the killer that has printed Sir Hughes' name?"

"Call it sharp intuition," Ciel drawls, as though he is bored, but, inwardly, he is thwarted by their lack of new data on the unattainable killer. Unable to vent as he does not know where to start, he instead throws some undesirable documents toward Sebastian for him to shred and wholly eradicate them. As he proceeds to search his pile, however, he—ironically—comes across his invitation to the winter ball.

_So I was actually informed of the winter ball, after all. And yet, I told Lau otherwise._

Scoffing, he opens the top flap and peruses the contents:

_Greetings, Honorable Earl of Phantomhive!_

Ciel pauses there to jokingly think to himself that he should use this greeting on Alois. But, just before he could compliment his witticism, his eye catches on the invitation again, and he rereads it, painstakingly this time. When a paralyzing flood of realization deluges his tightened chest, he looks up to see that Sebastian is already smiling.

"So then," Ciel grumbles, crinkling the invitation, and stands up with a renewed sense of urgency, "I understand your implications now. We must hurry, then, to Marquis Wright. As it turns out, our friend here has been keeping a very important secret from us."


End file.
